


Secrets

by adoring_audience



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 46
Words: 77,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adoring_audience/pseuds/adoring_audience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school/college/roommates/best friends AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Nameless, brainless, faceless, lucky bastard."

**> April 2012<**  
  
You open one of your eyes, only slightly; the other one incapacitated by the pillow you’re squishing half of your face into. And you wish for that moment of confusion, that moment in which you don’t know what it was that jarred you awake. Problem is, you always do. It’s him. Again. Or rather, it’s one of his tricks.  _Again_. Then you remember, not for the first time, that you’d wanted to look up Pittsburgh’s population on the internet, as well as a demographic that would give you a rough statistical estimate about the percentage of homosexuals in any given country. Then you’d be able to approximately guess the number of male gays in the city, add to them a ballpark figure of closeted gays as well as those still undecided, and maybe then you could figure out how much longer you’d have to endure being roused awake by the moans and groans of some nameless, brainless, faceless, lucky bastard.  
  
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your face and eyes and doing nothing to stifle your huge yawn. Reaching a level of wakefulness that you deem sufficient, you bang your fist on the wall behind the head of your bed. The moans immediately die down; just as you knew they would.  
  
Taking a few more minutes to completely arrive in the land of the living, your eyes wander to the alarm clock on the nightstand. You don’t even know why you have it. After all, you have a live-in, human alarm system in place. You lift your blanket and glance down. Deciding the boner in your pants died down enough for you to make a trip to the bathroom, you finally get out of bed.  
  
The routine is always the same: Piss, wash hands, splash some water on your face, brush teeth. Then wait for Brian to use the shower first because he likes the water scorching hot. For some fucked up reason the water in this shithole mansion of a students’ resident hall only runs hot for the first 10 or 15 minutes. According to Brian, the water is only warm after that. It’s still hot enough to turn your skin piggy pink, but you’ve long ago come to accept that Brian lives by different standards than the rest of the human population. You really don’t mind waiting to shower, or wouldn’t if it wasn’t for the fact that Brian doesn’t think much of covering his goods on his trips to and from the bathroom. You could always wait in your room, of course, and avoid seeing him –  _all of him_  – but the kitchen is where the coffee lives and so what if it so happens to be the room that Brian has to pass through on his way to the shower each morning. You don’t allow yourself to think further than that.  
  
You go about stuffing the coffee filter with Brian’s favorite and ridiculously expensive coffee – one of the few extravaganzas he allows in his tight monthly budget – and feed it to Brian’s favorite and also ridiculously expensive coffee maker. They’re freshly ground of course – another one of Brian’s ridiculously expensive fixtures without which he wouldn’t bother to start the day.  
  
You’re on your second cup when Brian finally appears in the doorway. You nod towards him, eyes still half-closed.  
  
Brian stops short when he sees you. “Too loud?” he asks.  
  
“Too loud,” you confirm.  
  
“Damn,” Brian says, “and I thought I had it down to sort out the screamers.”  
  
“Well, you failed,” you declare definitively but with no vehemence behind it.  
  
Brian smiles at that and comes closer, taking your chin between two fingers and kissing your forehead. “You know, Sunshine,” you flinch at the nickname, but he doesn’t notice, “there’s not many people who can say that to my face and live.”  
  
You smile affectionately. You know. “I know.”  
  
Brian looks longingly at the coffee, then smells his armpit. “Fuck, I need a shower. I reek.” He trudges towards the door of the bathroom and stops halfway through it. “Would you mind showing my guest the exit when he recovers enough to walk and make sure he doesn't overstay his welcome?”  
  
You nod slowly into your coffee and Brian’s satisfied with that. It’s also part of your routine.  
  
“Movie and then Babylon tonight?” he asks when he emerges from the shower, rubbing at his hair with a towel that you wish he’d had covered himself with. No matter how hard you try, you always lose the battle – every fucking morning. And so you surrender, like every day, and let your eyes travel the planes of his body. There’s still a few stray droplets of water clinging to his chest. But it’s his stomach and belly that you love the most and want to touch so desperately, your fingertips prickle. Because you’re afraid they’re gonna develop a life of their own, you bite your nails. It’s something you started doing not long after the two of you moved in together. Brian still thinks it’s a nervous habit. You don’t think he’ll ever know the truth.  
  
“Yeah, movie sounds okay,” you answer his question and he’s quiet for some time. You know exactly what he’s going to say. It’s always a variation of the same.  
  
“Babylon’s not the big bad place intent on corrupting young impressionable youths like you. By entering you don’t automatically sign a contract to visit the backroom.”  
  
You’ve been there once; in Babylon that is. You spent the evening watching Brian dance and disappear behind the chain draped doorway numerous times. Whether it was the first or the latter, you’re not sure, but you’ve never had a hard-on like that before. Or after. You’d excused yourself shortly after midnight and went home, claiming to have a headache and feeling shittier than you ever have before in your life. You had to jerk off three times before you could even think about going to sleep and all the time you felt like you were going to break in two, the pain in your heart was so unbearable.  
  
Brian had chalked it up to shock. You let him believe it. You’ve never gone back there with him since then. You also let him believe that what you were looking for was not a quick fuck. He teased you for wanting romance and flowers and candy. But he couldn’t have been further from the truth. You weren’t interested in those things; not that you had any experience with them, but if you thought about what you wanted, candles and arias for strings weren’t ever in the picture. You just wanted to be on the other side of that damn wall instead of banging on it every morning.


	2. "Aren't you gonna tell me your name?"

**> August 2008<**  
  
You hated high school. You hated high school even before you came out, though the two facts were remotely connected. You’ve known you were gay long before you joined the prestigious St. James Academy. Something told you that your coming out wouldn’t be met with sympathy and understanding. You weren’t wrong. Though it took your parents some time in which you had to endure your fair share of bullying from football jocks and self-proclaimed upholders of questionable conservative’s morals before they decided to allow you to change schools.  
  
Actually, it was your mother’s decision more than a shared one of your parents’ and you’ve always admired her for standing up to your father like that. It ironed out quite a bit of your former problems with her and the following divorce battle kept her busy enough to make sure your senior year passed smoothly and without much meddling from your mother, inquiring about your whereabouts.  
  
Though you didn’t like your new school any better than the last, the lack of a saint in its name as well as the lack of uniforms certainly helped feeling more relaxed when walking its halls. You didn’t make friends – neither quickly nor slowly. But you weren’t trying to either. Your only goal was to pass through senior year as anonymously as possible and then say goodbye to this place, preferably for good. You had your eyes and mind set on a school in Rhode Island. You didn’t know much about Rhode Island; or anything at all. But you did know which schools had the best art programs and the Rhode Island School of Design was definitely one of the best. Your whole future was set on getting into that school and you didn’t allow yourself to think about alternatives should you not get in; you didn’t want to jinx your chances by thinking negative thoughts.  
  
You met Brian the first week of the new school year. Not that you actually met or exchanged words with each other, but it was hard not to notice him and it wasn’t only because his physical appearance was a feast for the eyes. He was the star of the soccer team and though you didn’t care much for soccer, or any sport for that matter, there was no way of escaping the subject at Northgate High. Before you’ve ever seen him in person you heard his name chanted in the halls. It was enough for you to make the decision of keeping as far away from him as possible. You figured he was most likely one of those jocks who in his spare time liked to make a sport out of picking on those who were different in any way or form. But fate apparently had other plans.  
  
On your third day you’d begun to relax a little. You’d already figured out the shortest ways between classes and managed to find a somewhat secluded spot behind the tool shed, not far from the bleachers, where none of the supervising teachers ever checked up on, to have a smoke during the lunch break. You were cautiously optimistic about the rest of the year, despite PE – your last period. As usual, you lagged behind before taking a shower. And it wasn’t for the reason that Chris Hobbs, your ‘favorite’ bully from your old school tried to insist upon – that it was because you’d get a boner from watching all those hunks showering together. No, you just didn’t feel comfortable being naked in front of so many guys. You rummaged around in your bag, pretending to look for something, waiting for the guys to exit the communal shower one by one. When you felt it was safe to, you grabbed your towel and placed it on a hook before removing your t-shirt. It was at exact this moment that the door to the locker room opened and through it came none other than Brian Kinney, Northgate High’s very own living legend. He was muddy and sweaty, his auburn hair hanging in wet bangs in his eyes and looking every bit the rebel that his nickname on the field labeled him to be.  
  
To say you were surprised to see him was one thing – you hadn’t yet run into him and heard rumors that he was sick which explained his absence the first days of the new school year. But you could have dealt with surprise. What you didn’t count on was the physical reaction you had toward him.  
  
He stopped short when he saw you, looking at you curiously. “You’re new, right?” he asked while removing the soccer ball he’d been carrying under his arm and dropping it; it glided down along his leg as though magnets were keeping it in place and he caught it gracefully with the tip of his foot, balancing the ball for a few seconds before letting it drop to the ground and resting his foot on it. All this time his eyes remained on you and you realized what looked like a magic trick to you, was second nature to him.  
  
You could only nod at his question and continue to watch him. When you didn’t reply and didn’t move, he broke the gaze and pulled open his locker, grabbing for his bag. Kicking the ball neatly into one corner of the room where it obediently came to a rest, he sat astride the bench in the middle of the row, and opened the zipper, searching for something. You smiled sympathetically, realizing it for the stalling method that it was, because it was the same you used every day. Though you didn’t know why he would have qualms showering in front of any people. Aside from the star that he was, which alone would prevent anybody from poking fun out of him, from what you could see of his body through the sweat-clinging jersey, he was a fine specimen of the perfection of the human form. Whatever his reasons were, you were more than willing to give him some privacy, though not without regret, because, respectful though you might be, you were definitely not a saint but a horny teenager.  
  
“I’m…” You motioned towards the shower room. “I’m going to shower. I was about to…” You fell silent.  
  
He only nodded in response without looking at you, pretending to be completely engrossed in the contents of his bag. Before you could disappear from view however, his voice stopped you. “Aren’t you gonna tell me your name? Or do you want me to pick one for you?”  
  
You turned and met his eyes. “Justin.”  
  
“That’s your name or that’s what you want me to call you?”  
  
“Both.”  
  
“All right, Justin. I’m Brian.”  
  
“I know.” And all of a sudden you realized that you did. Even though you hadn’t expected him in your PE class and even though you hadn’t ever seen him before, you’d known the moment he walked in who he was. You briefly wondered why that was.  
  
“Your shower’s waiting,” he reminded you and tore you from your thoughts.  
  
You went about it quickly and methodically, your thoughts miles away and all over the place. When you walked back out into the main locker room, Brian passed you by on the way to the showers. You suspected he timed it with your turning off the water. You had to squeeze into the doorframe to let him pass and even though you didn’t touch, you could still feel his body heat. You hoped he wouldn’t notice the shiver that ran down your spine. He smiled at you in passing, a polite, insignificant smile, but you realized its power even if he didn’t. You knew you would dream about it for nights to come.  
  
You dressed, still in thought and bedazzled. You were in a hurry to get out of here and get home. Home seemed like a really good place to be right now. It would be empty, your Mom was still at work and would be for several more hours – a conference thingy or something, you hadn’t been listening properly when she told you about it that morning. Home would be blessedly quiet. And you needed time to think right now. After pulling on some clothes and grabbing your gym bag and backpack, you turned toward the exit. On your way out you couldn’t help but glance back. From your position only a sliver of the locker showers could be seen, but you managed to catch a glimpse of Brian. A second later you wished you wouldn’t have. Your face grew into a stone mask you couldn’t control and your eyes grew big, the horror etched into every feature. Across Brian’s back and running all the way around to the front, covering his ribs as well, there were three angry red and still fresh looking welts. The image stayed with you all the way home.


	3. "Pretty, country club, former private school boy."

**> August 2008<**  
  
The next morning it turned out he was in your AP Art History class. You would have been more surprised to see the star of the soccer team in an advanced placement class, and an art related at that, if the image from yesterday hadn’t been still haunting you. When you noticed him enter the classroom, you diverted your eyes. At St. James, your old school, you’d learned not to make eye contact and draw attention to yourself from supposed jocks, even if they were good looking. Though you weren’t following him with your eyes, you still took notice of him and listened as he determinedly made for the last row and slouched down in a chair in the corner. You could see him from the corner of your eyes if you tried really hard while pretending to gaze out the window. It gave you headaches and probably made you look retarded, but by the end of the class you knew that he appeared not to pay attention to your instructor even for one minute, but from time to time he made notes. You thought you’d figured him out and were really proud of it too: He was only pretending not to be interested in the class, probably afraid it would diminish his coolness factor or damage his jock reputation.  
  
You didn’t see him again until lunch break. In the cafeteria you quickly gulped down your food before stealing away to the place behind the tool shed where you felt you could have a smoke without being caught by one of the teachers or other students. Throwing a few careful glances over your shoulder to make sure nobody was watching, you pulled out the almost empty pack of cigarettes and reached for the lighter in your back pocket as you stopped short. Today, the place wasn’t empty. Your brain desperately scrambled for a believable excuse when you noticed the half-smoked cigarette dangling from the corner of Brian’s mouth; the very same mouth that was slowly stretching into a lazy smile.  
  
“Well, well,” Brian drawled. “Look who’s caught breaking school rules.” He grinned smugly at you and you wanted to stare at that smile all day long.  
  
“So are you,” you replied, appearing braver than you felt.  
  
Brian’s reply was an uncaring shrug. “What are they gonna do? Kick their best player out the school?” He was probably right. “You on the other hand…” He let the sentence hang there unfinished.  
  
You tried for the same careless shrug but reckoned it probably came out like a nervous tick. You looked down; your hands hang useless on both sides, one clutching the unlit smoke, the other the cheap plastic lighter. You realized you’ve intruded upon his hide-out. And besides, what the fuck were you doing talking to him? “Sorry. I’ll leave you alone now,” you mumbled and turned away.  
  
“You don’t have to go,” he called after you.  
  
Yes, you did, you thought. But you didn’t say it out loud. Instead, you threw back a quick smile that didn’t reach your eyes, not halting in your steps. You knew from experience how quickly friends could turn into enemies once they discovered truths you weren’t trying very hard to hide.  
  
The dreaded PE period loomed closer and even though you knew the soccer team practiced away from the rest of the PE students, you found yourself dreading running into Brian again. Sure, he seemed friendly enough the few times you’ve run into him so far. But you knew better than to trust the peace between you. For your body’s and your heart’s sake you vowed to keep as far away from him as possible in a school where apparently you shared two classes with him.  
  
That day, the teacher tortured you with dodge ball and halfway through the game, you faked an injury that was bad enough to prevent you from finishing the game but not so bad that you needed medical attention. You were allowed to go back to the locker rooms and breathed in relief because it meant that you could shower before the rest of the students would come flooding in. Apparently though, Brian had had the same idea. He was in the process of drying off, rubbing at his upper body with a threadbare towel when you came in. This time it wasn’t the view of his body that stopped you short in your tracks but the dark purple and already fading bruise just under his ribcage. He saw where your eyes were fixed upon and quickly grabbed for a t-shirt, pulling it over his head.  
  
“Justin, right?” he asked and smiled. You liked his smile but you also recognized it for what it was: a diversion tactic.  
  
Still, you nodded yes to his question. Still looking at the spot where the purple mark had been, even though it was now covered by a dark blue shirt, you made a vague motion towards it with your hand. “Is it your dad?” you asked and for a second froze in shock. You hadn’t the slightest idea what had prompted you to ask the question. “Because, you know, there are places you could go and people you could talk to.” And your mouth just continued talking while your mind remained in its shell-shocked, dysfunctional state.  
  
“What?” He played the part of not understanding what you meant. But you knew it was just an act. Even though you did not know how you knew. Your dad never hit you, apart from that one time after you came out to him. But it wasn’t the same. “Oh, that,” he said as if just now remembering the bruise, “well, the guys on the field can be rough. It doesn’t look like it, but soccer is a vicious sport.”  
  
“School and practice just started this week, but you missed the first few days and you already had it the first day you came back. Besides, the marks on your back don’t look like an accident at all.” Maybe you were suffering from an aneurysm right that moment? How else could you explain the things that kept tumbling from your mouth?  
  
His eyes got cold and his smile slowly vanished. “Keep out of it,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “What the fuck do you know? Pretty, country club, former private school  _boy_.” He sneered the last word, making it sound like an insult. As though you were so much younger than him. You were probably the same age. At that moment, it didn’t even register that he knew where you’d come from. It would be only much, much later that you’d realize that he must have checked up on you to know about your background. Right then you were busy catching a breath as he pushed you violently against the row of lockers on his way out, making the metal locks clatter as your back collided with them. He was out, the door slamming loudly behind him, before you picked yourself up again.  
  
It was just as well, you told yourself on your walk home. His behavior didn’t really come as a surprise; you’d known he was a jock from the very beginning. It didn’t matter if his home life was fucked up. Whose wasn’t? It didn’t earn him extra brownie points and you wouldn’t make excuses for him just because his parents were, supposedly, shitty to him. In the end, you decided, it was just what you’d needed to make yourself stop daydreaming about him.


	4. "Accepting someone's gratitude made him feel uncomfortable."

**> September 2008<**  
  
For the next couple of weeks to come, you two ignored each other completely. Well, mostly. Though you hadn’t forgotten the fervor behind his push and despite your testimony to the contrary, you suspected you’d already forgiven him. Either that or you were never angry with him in the first place. Either way, no matter where in school you were, you always knew where he was; if only out of the need to avoid running into him. And besides, it wasn’t like you had to be on the lookout that much. He simply stood out. And though you weren’t sure if your last encounter in the locker rooms had anything to do with it, because you had no previous data to compare the current situation to, but it seemed as though he was acting particularly butch in the halls during classes. He was never seen without his friends and they never passed quietly, instead choosing to make a lot of noise and generally living up to the obnoxious nature of a hormonal male teenager in groups of equally obnoxious and hormonal teenagers, all of them wearing letterman jackets.  
  
The first soccer game of the season didn’t make matters easier. Northgate High School had won against a neighboring school thanks to Brian scoring two goals. His teammates insisted on carrying him on their shoulders for days to come and the rest of the student body behaved like he was royalty whenever he appeared somewhere. His ego soared high above everyone else’s and girls seemed to like the way he treated them, not minding that he had his arm slung across the shoulders of a different one each day. You looked upon them with a sense of disgust, as they buzzed around him like bees around a cake on a warm summer’s day. His jock-ness got worse with every day. His cronies aka teammates basked in their glory and treated everyone else like dirt, expecting them to make way in the halls and letting them cut in a line in the cafeteria at lunch.  
  
It all changed pretty much exactly three weeks to the day after you’d first laid your eyes on him. As usual, the group of soccer players and their ubiquitous fangirls pranced the hall in the science building to the cheers and team song you’ve already grown accustomed to, the clusters of students breaking up to make room as the uniform-clad group progressed. You were buried in your locker, searching for your US History notes from the previous day, but you kept an eye on the group that was reflected in the small mirror on the inside of your locker door. It was pure chance that made you look up the same second that one of the burlier players bumped into a smaller kid that stood facing the other way.  
  
The burly player – Matt? Mark? Mike? – stopped at the collision and grabbing the smaller guy’s shoulder turned him around. “Excuse me?” he said provocatively, “I think you bumped into me.”  
  
Brian, who’d been walking one step ahead of his friend, turned around as well and gauging the situation said, “Mitch, stop being an asshole.”  
  
“Who’s being an asshole?” Mitch replied. “I’m just giving this guy here an opportunity to apologize to me.”  
  
The small guy, dark-haired and dark-eyed, seemed to crumple under the weight of Mitch’s hand on his shoulder and looked scared as hell. He mumbled something unintelligible, eyes fixed on the tips of his shoes. It might have been an apology.  
  
“What was that, faggot?” Mitch asked, making a show of turning his ear closer to the guy’s face to hear him better.  
  
“Mitch!” Brian said again, low and threatening, but Mitch ignored him.  
  
The guy’s eyes darted between Brian and Mitch for a second before returning to the captivating pattern of the school’s linoleum floor. “I’m…” he began and swallowed thickly, “I’m…”  
  
“You don’t have to apologize to him,” Brian told the guy, then grabbed Mitch’s arm and pulled it from the guy’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said to Mitch.  
  
“What the fuck are you doing?” Mitch protested in disbelief. “He’s just a little corny faggot who still reads comic books,” he sneered grabbing the comic out of the boy’s hand. The guy made a half-hearted grab for it. “You’re protecting dirty little faggots now? People are gonna think you’re one of them,” Mitch told Brian.  
  
Brian stared at him calmly and you thought you felt the room temperature drop a few degrees. “What if I am?”  
  
Up to this moment you’d been watching the whole thing in your mirror, but at Brian’s quietly spoken question you turned around and stared at him openly. You didn’t care that your mouth hung open. Nobody was paying attention to you. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on Mitch and Brian and the little dark-haired guy. Mitch had been stunned into silence, his mouth opening and closing. Eventually his throat produced a sound very much like a croak but you wouldn’t find out what he was about to say, because that very moment a teacher stepped out of a classroom and asked, “What’s going on here?” Seconds later he was joined by another teacher and the coach all of whom demanded to know the same thing but Mitch and Brian remained silent, eyes trained on each other.  
  
“Kinney, Peratto,” the coach roared, “you answer when I ask you a question!”  
  
“Nothing, sir,” Brian finally said but continued to stare at Mitch as if daring him to object. “Nothing’s happening. Just a little misunderstanding between friends. Right, Mitch?”  
  
Mitch nodded tightly.  
  
“Well, break it up then,” the coach told them, looking from Brian to Mitch and back.  
  
The corners of Mitch’s mouth jerked a few times but eventually he thrust the comic book he was still holding against Brian’s chest and left. Brian managed a tight-lipped smile and the teachers stepped away and retreated to their respective classrooms. After a couple more seconds so did the students who had been watching the whole affair. Brian returned the comic book to the dark-haired boy and asked, “What’s your name?”  
  
“M… Mikey,” he stammered. Then, gaining posture and confidence, corrected himself, “Michael.” He paused and remembered to add, “Novotny.”  
  
“Well, Mikey Novotny,” Brian said and he was already smiling, if only a little, “don’t you have somewhere to be?”  
  
The guy – Michael – nodded and turned to go but stopped again when he remembered. “Thank you,” he said and you heard the genuine gratitude in his voice.  
  
Brian shrugged it away. Apparently he had no problem with being admired, but accepting someone’s gratitude made him feel uncomfortable. You watched Brian as he watched Michael hurry into a classroom. When Brian turned on his heel to walk away, your eyes met and held each other. His face was impassive, but in his eyes you could read everything. You fell in love with him that day.


	5. "You're an ass, you know that?"

**> September 2008<**  
  
Over the course of the next week you saw Brian and Michael together every day. It began with Brian sitting alone at a table, shunned by his teammates and former fangirls, and Michael joining him the second day that it happened. After the last period, when you crossed paths in the locker rooms, Brian nodded a greeting, never saying anything, and you nodded back, feeling awkward and stupid, wanting to say something but not knowing what. You thought about starting with a, “I’m sorry.” But what would you be sorry for? Besides, you suspected that if Brian had problems accepting a simple thank you, he wouldn’t be too thrilled with someone’s compassion or even empathy, though it was far removed from being pity. You also suspected that, to Brian, they were one and the same.  
  
You kept away from his hiding place between the bleachers and the tool shed and only dared sneaking away there after checking and confirming that Brian was in the cafeteria, having lunch with Michael. It was on a Friday before a long weekend when you poked your head in the spacious room filled with students to see if he was there and to gauge whether you could manage to have a quick smoke. Something about this day made your head ache and you needed a cigarette badly. You saw him almost instantly. He looked up as if he felt your eyes on him and again you couldn’t look away. But instead of nodding a greeting in your general direction, as he usually did, he motioned with his head to come join him. You were confused and it must have shown on your face because he made the same movement again, only more impatient this time. As if on autopilot, you moved towards his table.  
  
“You had lunch yet?” he asked instead of a greeting.  
  
You only managed to shake your head. What did he want from you? Why did he motion for you to come closer? What were you supposed to say? Your friend Daphne had gone on a date once – it was only to the ice cream parlor and with that weird kid Barry that stared at people without moving his eyes or blinking for hours – but she’d told you about conversation starter cards that she’d prepared in case they would run out of topics to talk about. You laughed at her, calling her a nerd. Now you wondered what topics she’d put down there; maybe she told you about them while you were busy tuning her out; maybe some of it stuck in your subconscious? You vowed that the next time she told you something that you thought was ridiculous you’d listen before making fun of her. Unless she came up with a completely harebrained idea which, of course, would always merit ridicule.  
  
“Well, go get your tray. I’ll keep this place free for you.” Brian motioned to the seat next to him.  
  
“Uh,” you began, wanting to explain that you weren’t hungry. Even if you had been – how were you supposed to eat with him so close to you, for Christ’s sake?  
  
He raised his eyebrows in question. “Do you have a tongue, Justin?” he asked overly serious and provocatively at the same time, but there was no venom behind it.  
  
You nodded.  
  
“Great,” he said. “Maybe you’ll even tell me your last name.”  
  
“Taylor,” you blurted out.  
  
“He speaks,” Brian grandly announced, then smiled. His tone softened as he said, “I know. Mrs. Johnston reads the roll every morning, remember?”  
  
The AP Art History teacher. Right. Your face turned red; you felt stupid.  
  
“Knew I could make you blush,” Brian quietly mumbled, almost to himself.  
  
“What do you want from me?” you couldn’t help but ask. He had to want something, didn’t he?  
  
“Wow, we’re starting with the big questions already. Okay, let’s see. How about, I’m sorry I slammed you into the lockers. I didn’t mean to hurt you; I was just…”  
  
Angry. Scared. Surprised. Also: an asshole. You nodded because you not only understood but also had forgiven already. “Apology accepted.”  
  
“Your company during lunch, then a smoke if you can spare one,” Brian continued with his list, answering your question, “and an answer to the question: What do you have planned for the weekend?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“What?” You were sure neither of you would be joining the school’s debate team soon.  
  
“Which of my answers do you want me to elaborate on? I suppose that’s what the ‘huh’ was about?”  
  
“You’re an ass, you know that?” you blurted out suddenly. He was teasing you, making you feel like a complete idiot when you were fairly sure that you were capable of a halfway decent conversation. Under normal circumstances.  
  
“People have told me so repeatedly, yes. I choose not to believe them.”  
  
“You should when they’re telling you the truth,” you replied.  
  
“Ah,” he sighed, “but truth is relative, isn’t it?”  
  
“Generally, I’d agree. But there are levels of assholishness that transcend relativity.”  
  
He laughed. The sound was captivating. It was relaxed and carefree and made his eyes light up. You found yourself drowning in them. “Go get your lunch, Taylor. Then we can discuss our weekend plans.”  
  
“I wasn’t aware we had any,” you gave back.  
  
“Hmm, then let me fill you in on mine. I plan on taking you out to a movie tomorrow night. After that, we’ll go to a diner and I’ll treat you to the best fucking lemon bars this city has to offer. Then I’m gonna walk you back home and before I say goodnight, I’m gonna kiss you and when I do, I want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now. Does that work for you?”  
  
Your breath hitched, your mouth suddenly grew dry. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips. Brian’s eyes followed its path and he made an involuntary sound in his throat that raised the small hairs on your neck.  
  
“Damn,” he breathed, still staring at your mouth, “Tomorrow night seems like a fucking eternity away.”  
  
You silently agreed.


	6. "Insipient half-breed."

**> September 2008<**  
  
“What do you say we rent a movie or two and spend the evening lounging on the couch, shoveling all kinds of unhealthy food into ourselves till we get stomach cramps?”  
  
“Mom, I’m not twelve anymore,” you replied.  
  
“Of course not,” she hurriedly gave back and you saw a shadow of pain flit over her eyes before she could school her expression. You felt lousy. It was true – movies and pizza and candy was something you used to do when you were barely a teenager, on evenings when your father had to stay at the shop longer, but you actually liked those kind of evenings and she was really trying.  
  
“I’m sorry, Mom,” you apologized. “Movie and stomach cramps actually sound like a good idea, but I already have plans.”  
  
“You do?”  
  
“Yeah. Some kids from school asked if I wanted to join them for a movie at the Black & White movie theater.” Most of it was true anyway. Your mom had come to accept you being gay but you weren’t ready to tell her you had an actual date, so the plural-S just slipped out.  
  
“That’s great, honey,” she enthused and you knew exactly what she thought. You could practically see the relief on her face at discovering that you made some friends. She was always bemoaning your at least partially self-chosen path of a loner. “Well, then, have fun. Remember to take your phone with you and be home at 11 o’clock.”  
  
An idea struck you. “Uh, Mom, what if they want to go for a coke afterwards? I don’t want to be the party pooper.”  
  
You felt guilty playing on her feelings like that. She sighed, fighting an inner debate. You knew she’d cave in because she wouldn’t want to risk your chances at making new friends. And yes, you did feel bad, but not enough to stop. The anticipation of seeing Brian outside the school limits was drowning out every other emotion almost completely.  
  
“Well, okay,” she finally relented. “But only because it’s not a school night. And you’ll call if it gets later.”  
  
You willingly agreed to her conditions and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”  
  
She blushed prettily at the praise and for a second she looked incredibly young. For a brief moment you wondered if she was lonely. You wondered if eventually she’d start dating again. You wondered if she’d tell you when she would.  
  
You’d texted Brian to meet you at the corner of McKnight Road and Ross Park Drive. It was several blocks away from the condo your mother and you now inhabited and almost halfway to the movie theater you and Brian had agreed upon. You slowed your pace after a glance at your watch. You were too early and didn’t want to appear too eager. When you reached the meeting point, you looked around. It was deserted save for a few parked cars and an occasional stray cat. No Brian in sight. You chose an overshadowed entrance of a building from where you would have perfect overview of the entire junction and waited.  
  
He was five minutes late. Five minutes turned into ten which turned into fifteen. Around the twentieth minute you started debating whether to abandon your post and return home or go to the movies alone. Around minute twenty-five you were ready to declare the whole evening a scam; someone probably dared Brian to ask you out and now they were having a marvelous time imagining you waiting there for him. Thirty minutes after the agreed upon time, you’d compiled a mental list of names you would like to call Brian and were already at number 52. You were putting down number 77 –  _insipient half-breed_  – and wondering if you had used it already on 38, when you saw him.  
  
Shoulders pulled up high as though fighting against some imaginary strong wind, he walked up to you, his steps slowing the closer he got.  
  
“You’re here,” he said and his voice sounded wondrous.  
  
“We had a date, didn’t we?” you gave back sourly.  
  
“Yeah,” he said and squinted looking confused. “More than half an hour ago.”  
  
“Oh good,” your voice dripped sarcasm, “so you can read the clock. I was starting to wonder, you know.”  
  
“I got held up,” he quietly said. And then added in an even quieter voice which you barely recognized, so unsure and fragile did it sound, “I’m glad you waited though. I wasn’t sure you would.”  
  
You looked at him closer this time. He looked shaken; there was a haunted expression in his eyes and his left cheek seemed slightly swollen. His hair was a mess. And had he walked funny somehow, as if favoring one of his legs? “What happened?” you asked, all anger gone from your voice completely.  
  
“I’ll be okay,” he said and tried to smile. That’s when you saw the split lip. How did you not notice it before?  
  
“That’s not an answer to my question.”  
  
“Just let it go.” He looked you squarely in the eye. And suddenly you knew that you wouldn’t be getting one but you didn’t need him to explain anymore. You knew what had happened.  
  
You tried to think hard, at the same time biting your knuckles in an effort not to cry. You’ve known him less than a month, could count the number of times you conversed with him on one hand, and already you couldn’t stand to see him in pain. And he must have been from the way he held himself, right arm draped protectively around his ribs. He most likely had injuries you couldn’t see in addition to those that were only now starting to bloom on his face. Where to now? You couldn’t let him go back home – this much was for certain. But you didn’t dare take him to your mother’s condo either. You knew of a deserted and long abandoned gas station a couple of streets from here, but discarded that idea as well. You looked around, hoping your eyes would land on something to give you an idea. They did. “Come on,” you urged him and grabbed his elbow, careful not to hurt him more.  
  
“The movie started ten minutes ago,” he said in protest but followed nevertheless.  
  
It was a ten minute walk on a normal day, but mindful of his condition you paced your walk and it took you more than fifteen minutes to reach the giant parking lot of a discount supermarket.  
  
“You wanna go shopping now?!”  
  
You ignored him and the lady that greeted you as you stepped inside, scanning the signs. You’ve known that this place was here, but you’ve never been inside before. Spotting the sign you were looking for, you pulled Brian with you and pushed open the door to the men’s room one moment later.  
  
“What—?” he began, but you ignored him again. You scanned the room – it was empty for now – and considered one of the stalls, but decided against it. Instead, you pushed him, as gently as you could, against the wall opposite the door and immediately reached for the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up.  
  
“Whoa,” Brian exclaimed but, surprisingly, did not stop you. “Shouldn’t we at least start with first base before we skip to the third?”  
  
You pressed your dry lips on his mouth or rather the corner of his mouth that was unhurt; not so much following his suggestion but to shut him up which it did admirably well. There was no finesse and definitely no tongue involved and you would realize it only after your examination of his injuries was over that it was your first kiss. “Shut up,” you told him. Surprisingly, he did, biting down on his grin.  
  
You held his shirt in one hand while the fingers of the other gently skimmed over the skin over his ribs. Brian flinched and you bent your head to see how bad it was. A bruise the size of a baseball, or a fist, was starting to collect and you squirmed as if feeling the pain yourself. Your fingers travelled up under the fabric of his shirt and across his chest. “Does it hurt anywhere else?”  
  
“Everywhere,” Brian breathed after a moment’s hesitation.  
  
Alarmed you made to remove his shirt completely but this time he stopped you. “No,” he said. “That’s the only bruise you’ll find.” You understood.  
  
Letting his shirt drop, your fingers reached for his cheek. It had started to change color, turning from bright pink to a deeper shade of bluish red. You didn’t dare touch him, not wanting to cause him more pain. When he realized this, he carefully nestled his cheek into your palm. It radiated heat; more than normal. Another idea came to you all of a sudden.  
  
“Stay here,” you told him, already on your way out the door. “I’ll be back in a flash.”  
  
You stopped in the middle of the supermarket, looking around and wondering where the health department might be. Running across a staff member, you almost yelled the question at the startled woman and hurried off towards the direction she indicated. You searched for a self-cooling pad and swore loudly, not finding one. Instead you grabbed a pack of band-aid strips and a bottle of Advil and a few more items you thought would be useful. Five minutes and a trip to the food department later you managed to find everything you needed and went for the check-out line. While you stood waiting for the line to move, you wondered if Brian would still be where you’d left him. You wouldn’t put it past him to bail.


	7. "Sunshine."

**> September 2008<**  
  
He was still there. He’d cleaned up a little in the meantime and smoothed down his hair. He was still leaning against the spot on the wall you’d pushed him into and had his head tilted back. At the sound of the door opening, he straightened up. And winced. And you winced with him. You rushed over to him and waved the plastic bag with your purchases in front of his eyes. He raised an eyebrow, or tried to, but another wince made him abandon the idea. You rummaged through the plastic bag and pulled out a bag of frozen peas. From the paper towel dispenser you pulled out a stack of towels and wrapped the frozen product in it as best as you could before pressing it on Brian’s face. He gasped painfully at the contact but after a moment he sighed in relief.  
  
“Thank you,” he breathed. Your mouth quirked into a brief smile, happy that you could do something to help him.  
  
Next you pulled out the antiseptic spray and wet another paper towel with it, dabbing carefully at Brian’s split lip. His forehead creased, but he didn’t jerk away. When you cleaned the cut sufficiently, you pulled out a Band-Aid and tried to figure out how to place it to keep the cut closed. Brian stopped you.  
  
“Don’t,” he said. “It’ll heal without it.”  
  
It scared you when you realized that he probably spoke from experience.  
  
“I don’t know what to do about…” you said and motioned to where he was holding his ribs. “I should have gotten another bag of peas.”  
  
He glanced down his body and back up to you. “It’s okay. I just need to take things easy for a while and I’ll be good as new.”  
  
You nodded, wanting so desperately to believe him. And to make him believe that you believed him. To distract yourself you fumbled with the cap of the Advil bottle and shook out three pills once you managed to open it. You held them up to his face. “Sorry, I forgot to bring paper cups,” you said when he looked toward the row of faucets. “But I got us these,” you exclaimed when you remembered and pulled out a can of Coke. Since one of his arms was busy keeping the bag of frozen peas in place and the other was holding his ribs together and clutching the three Advil, you opened the drink for him. He smiled gratefully, albeit lopsidedly, and washed the pills down, holding the can awkwardly to the right corner of his mouth which was unhurt.  
  
“So, uh…” you began but, not knowing how to continue, fell quiet again, looking at the white, cheap tiles around your feet. Brian shifted the makeshift cooling pad on his cheek and you brought your eyes up to his face. “Here, let me,” you said and reached for the soggy bag, glad to have something to do. The paper towels were soaked through from the condensation and were starting to fall apart. When he pulled it from his face, tiny bits of wet paper clung to his skin and your hand reached automatically for them. As you wiped them away, he looked at you strangely and you realized how your gesture must have looked to him.  
  
You flushed an embarrassed red and mumbled, “You’ve…” but didn’t finish. You showed him your palm where you’d collected the soggy bits. “I just…” Again, you fell silent, not knowing what to say. He simply smirked at you. It came out looking half a grimace, but you still thought him more beautiful than anything else you’d ever seen. You quickly averted your eyes and busied your hands with the task of rewrapping the bag of slowly melting peas before bringing it to his face again.  
  
Silence fell between the two of you. You searched your brain for something to say, but it was abandoning you again.  
  
“Sorry I ruined our date,” he said into the silence.  
  
“You didn’t.” He raised an eyebrow and you explained. “It’s not over yet.” Then, suddenly unsure, you asked, “Or is it?”  
  
He just shrugged his shoulders, another awkward motion accompanied with a wince, and you understood that he was leaving it up to you to decide.  
  
“Well, it isn’t,” you decided and tried to put as much conviction in it as you dared. “And I intend to reserve judgment until it is.”  
  
“So, what did you have planned?” he asked.  
  
You smiled and dangled the plastic bag in front of him again. “Well, you promised me a movie and lemon bars,” you reminded him. “Couldn’t find a movie I wanted to see back there and the only lemon bars they had were frozen, but I got us these,” you said and pulled out a box of Twinkies and a paper bag full of donuts. “I had to improvise,” you explained and scrunched up your face. Then added, while still not sure if you should, “Since you changed our plans last minute.”  
  
You risked a glance at him, not certain if you had the right to address what had happened to him the way you had, but he smiled at you and you were relieved. His face lit up with an idea and his smile grew wider. “Maybe I can do something about the movie. You okay with walking a bit?”  
  
“Are you?” you asked back because you were not the one with the sore ribs here.  
  
“Yeah, sure. I think the Advil’s working,” he answered and pushed away from the wall, pulling you with him. He tossed the bag of peas that were now dripping in the trashcan on his way out and threw a glance in the mirror, turning his head left and right, studying his reflection. The swelling was still there, but it hadn’t grown worse and the color had gone back to a dark pink instead of angry red.  
  
Half an hour later you found yourself atop a hill with a view toward one of the parks in the area. From your position you could see a large screen where a black and white movie was playing open air.  
  
“Movie,” Brian said, with his arm performing a sweeping movement to encompass the general direction of the screen. Brian smiled at you. The smile suddenly grew insecure, the way you haven’t seen him before. “I know we can’t hear anything from here, but I can provide a commentary. I’ve seen the movie several times.”  
  
“You like Marlon Brando?” you asked, still gazing at the screen in the distance.  
  
“Yeah,” he nodded bashfully. You thought he looked incredibly cute but you’d never tell him so. “What about you?”  
  
“I prefer James Dean,” you replied.  
  
“Of course you do.” He laughed and slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling him with you down into the grass. You would have protested him mocking your tastes, but the weight of his arm around you felt heavenly and you didn’t want to risk it for anything in the world.  
  
While he opened two cans of soda for you, you gleefully ripped open the box of Twinkies and got comfortable leaning against his good side, ready to listen to Brian’s soft timbre as his voice imitated the distinctive accent of Stanley Kowalski.  
  
“You know, all things considered, this was still one of the best dates I’ve ever been on,” you said about two hours later. You were slowly getting closer to the part of the town where you and your mom lived and you knew you’d have to say goodnight to him soon.  
  
He laughed and asked, “How many dates have you been on?”  
  
“Counting this one as well?” Brian nodded. “One.” When he made to laugh again, you objected, “Hey, it’s still the best date I can imagine. Even though I won’t be getting a kiss like you promised.”  
  
“What makes you think you won’t?” he wondered.  
  
You motioned vaguely to his lip which made him raise an eyebrow again. “You think that’s gonna stop me?” he smirked and came to a stop suddenly. Turning you around, he wound an arm around your neck and pulled you closer. Millimeters from your face, he froze and looked into your eyes. His pupils were wider than you’d ever seen them before and he was looking at you, seeing deep inside you. Your lips opened slightly in anticipation of his, wondering how he would taste, wondering if you’d still be able to taste the cigarette on him. Before your lips connected, his tongue shot out and painted a wet line on your lower lip. You gasped and stepped closer, bringing your body to him. Your thighs touched and you could feel the heat from his skin singeing you. It was scorching and something indescribable was thrumming through your veins, feeding off of his energy. He felt so alive, pressed against you; alive and dangerous. Instead of seeking shelter, you pressed your body even more into his and he didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, one of his arms wound tightly around your middle, pulling you even closer, leaving no air between your bodies. His other arm released your neck and you were just about to protest its loss when his warm palm replaced it. It rested on your naked neck and slowly crept into your hair, fingernails scraping along the scalp. You moaned at the delicious contact and your eyes fell close. When you opened them again, he was still looking at you, your breath mingling with his. His tongue tasted your lips again, sweeping first the upper, then the lower one. Then again. And again; before taking your lower lip between his teeth and nibbling on it, licking it and sucking, all the time making this noise in the back of his throat like he’d never before in his life had anything that tasted as good.  
  
Eventually you realized that your arms were hanging uselessly at your sides and you brought them up immediately, wrapping both around his neck and pulling his head down. Your lips smashed together, his covering yours completely. You opened your mouth and he followed suit. His tongue came out again, shyly probing into your mouth. You touched it with your own, sliding it against his, tasting, trying out ways to explore his mouth. You played with each other, teasing and enjoying.  
  
Your body started rubbing itself on his and the friction on your dick made sparks shoot out behind your closed eyes. You were hard and you couldn’t remember when that had happened. But he was hard too, grinding into your lower belly and, God, you didn’t ever want him to stop! You moaned into his mouth, biting down on his tongue lightly before sucking on it just like he’d done seconds before. Wanting more, you held his head tighter between your palms, not allowing your mouths to break contact.  
  
He gasped in pain a millisecond before you tasted blood. You drew back in shock. The cut on his lip had opened again and he touched it gingerly with his fingers.  
  
“Oh, God, I’m so, so sorry,” you began but he shushed you with three fingers on your lips.  
  
“I’m not,” he said, already smiling. “Totally worth it.”  
  
You grinned sheepishly too. “Yeah,” you dreamily said, “that was one hot first kiss.”  
  
He looked at you funny. “That wasn’t your first kiss,” he said.  
  
“I’m flattered you don’t believe me, but, yes, it was,” you insisted.  
  
He tilted his head and said, “You kissed me back in the men’s room at Wal-Mart.”  
  
“I did not!” you exclaimed outraged.  
  
He just smirked indulgently. “Sure you did. Think back.”  
  
You did, going over every one of your moves. Suddenly you straightened out. “Oh no, I can’t believe it. I missed my first kiss!”  
  
Brian laughed. Again, he slung his arm around your neck and continued to walk. “Well, to be fair, it was barely more than a peck.”  
  
“So you won’t mind if, for further references, I refer to what happened a minute ago, as my and, consecutively, our first kiss?”  
  
“You’re weird, Sunshine,” Brian said.  
  
You didn’t comment the nickname. It was kinda corny and girly, but for some reason you liked it.


	8. "Dating is complicated."

**> September 2008<**  
  
You couldn’t sleep that night. You tried to, hoping for dreams filled with Brian and your first kiss playing on infinite loop. Instead, you lay awake, wondering where Brian was – whether he went home like he said he would or if he’d gone to a friend’s house instead. You wondered if he had any friends left after what happened at school. You wondered if he was alright, whether he was in pain. And you hated his father with a fierceness that you hadn’t experienced before.  
  
You were showered and dressed by the time the sun rose fully. Before you left for school, even though it was hours before it would start, you made sure to pocket the bottle of Advil you bought last night. The air was crisp this early in the day; you adjusted the strap of the messenger bag across your chest and buried deeper into the raised collar of your jean jacket, quickening your pace.  
  
The school parking lot was still deserted, as was the school building – the doors still locked. You swerved around the east wing and made for the bleachers. There was still ample time to treat yourself to a breakfast cigarette, you decided. When you stepped around the corner behind the tool shed, you came face to face with Brian. He was sitting on his haunches, back propped against the outer wall of the shed, fingers playing with the lighter in his hands.  
  
“Out of cigarettes?” you asked, holding the pack in his direction.  
  
“No,” he answered. You loved the small giveaway curling of the corner of his uninjured mouth that told you he was happy to see you.  
  
“I’ve already had two.”  
  
“How long have you been there?” you asked him, lighting a cigarette for yourself and squatting down beside him.  
  
“Since sunrise.”  
  
Your eyebrows rise. You thought you had a sleepless night. Apparently you weren’t the only one.  
  
The surprise on your face prompted him elaborate, “My dad’s shift starts at 6.”  
  
He didn’t need to say more. You understood. It was safer for him to leave the house before his dad woke up. Who knew if maybe his father felt like he’d not yet expressed his frustration well enough. Better not risk a confrontation to find out.  
  
“You should have come to my place. We could have walked to school together,” you said before you thought about it first. You did a mental facepalm at the slip up. You couldn’t know how Brian felt about last night. You just assumed that… but maybe he… maybe it was… Oh, boy, dating was complicated. No wonder Daphne was constantly reading dating guidebooks. Another thing you frequently mocked her for. Maybe you should write an apology letter to her. A written apology would feel more official, right? Like you really mean it?  
  
“Maybe I would have if I’d known where you live,” Brian cuts into your straying thoughts.  
  
“Five-ten, Allison Road,” you quickly replied to get to the more important part of his answer. “Maybe?”  
  
“Well, now that I know you wouldn’t mind me showing up on your doorstep, I definitely will,” he explained.  
  
“Definitely don’t mind,” you assured with a grin. You tried to dim it down a bit, tried not to look too pleased about what he said, but your grin probably still looked pretty stupid. You couldn’t bring yourself to care though. He said he would; definitely would. Your grin became even stupider. And then you blushed when you noticed he was watching you carefully.  
  
After a moment of awkwardness on your part, he huffed out a laugh and grabbed the smoke from your lips, bringing it to his own and inhaling. You relaxed as the tension eased. He practiced smoke rings while he exhaled and you tried to surreptitiously check his split lip under the pretense of watching him practice.  
  
“I’m okay,” he said, not looking at you.  
  
You took back your cigarette from him and, after taking a pull, said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”  
  
He turned to you finally, regarded you for a few moments, and said, “Well, in that case, I wouldn’t mind an Advil or two.”  
  
You smiled and pulled the bottle from your pocket, throwing it in his lap.


	9. "Don't try to save me."

**> September 2008<**  
  
Brian had to skip soccer practice the entire following week due to his injuries. He spent the time on the bleachers, watching his team train for the upcoming match. Normally, he and the coach would use the time to put their heads together to devise a strategy, but the coach, as well as the entire team, were shunning Brian. A few were brave enough to nod in his direction as they entered the soccer field, but most ignored him completely. Brian didn’t let on whether he was bothered by it, his face a mask of nonchalance.  
  
You hated it. You hated how his friends were treating him; hated that there was nothing you could do about it; and hated that his being rendered incapacitated gave him too much time during PE to watch his classmates. Or  _one_ classmate in particular. You, to be exact.  
  
You felt his eyes on you all the time. It made you drop every ball, trip over your own feet, confuse a player from the opposing team for one of your own, and generally make a complete fool of yourself. Well, more so than usual. That he watched you embarrass yourself in front of him with a seemingly painted on smirk just made you want to slap him. Or possibly want to kiss the fucking smirk from his face. Yes, you thought you preferred the second option.  
  
Not that there wasn’t kissing. Lots of it. It had become a habit of yours to look out your bedroom window first thing after waking up. It hadn’t happened yet, but you still needed to check whether he was standing there somewhere, waiting for you. His absence only made you dress and eat breakfast faster. If your mom wondered why you were trying to break the world record for consuming a bowl of cereal the fastest every morning, she didn’t say so. She also didn’t comment on your sudden enthusiasm for school that made you leave the house almost an hour before the first period started. But your day didn’t begin until you reached your hiding spot behind the tool shed and felt his lips on yours. They always said hello way better than your voices ever could. You could tell by the way he tasted and smelled how his morning had been. Toothpaste and a faint citrus aroma if he was okay, because it meant that he’d had enough time to shower and eat. Cigarettes if things were tense, because that meant that he’d had to leave the house early. But at least he’d managed to avoid a confrontation. Sometimes you tasted blood. Those were the days you reminded him of where you lived. He usually laughed it away.  
  
“Sunshine,” he’d say, “don’t try to save me.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“I’ve managed pretty well the last 17 years. Only eight more months and I’ll be gone from here. No more Pitts, and no more Penn.”  
  
“You’re going out of state?” you asked, suddenly realizing that, for the first time since you can remember, you weren’t looking forward to graduating from school.  
  
He nodded yes to your question. “Indiana or North Carolina.”  
  
“You haven’t decided yet?”  
  
“No. Got a full ride for Duke’s, but IU has the better academic program. But they’ve offered only a partial scholarship so I’ll have to find a job real quick to be able to pay for what it won’t cover.”  
  
“That sucks,” you commented on both, his and your situation.  
  
He seemed to understand, and maybe even agree, because his arm came around your shoulders and he pulled you in for another kiss, this time full of need and longing. You tasted something new in that kiss; something indefinable, something complicated and possibly dangerous. It made you sigh contently and tremble in fear at the same time; it told you this was more than just a schoolboy crush.  
  
“What college are you going to?” he asked when you broke apart.  
  
“I always thought I’d be going to Dartmouth since that was where my dad wanted to send me. And I am going to apply there too, because I think my Mom expects me to?” It came out a question because you weren’t sure what your mother’s standpoint on Ivy League schools was. “But now that the decision is up to me alone, I think I want to go somewhere where they have a decent fine arts program. I was thinking Rhode Island, but it’s really difficult to get in. My mother keeps bugging me to apply to other schools as well, so I can have an alternative to fall back on. But I haven’t done anything yet.”  
  
“Maybe we could check the art programs at IU and Duke,” Brian suggested.  
  
You almost broke skin, you were biting your lip so hard in an effort not to grin like an idiot.  
  
The memory of it popped up in your head at the most unfortunate and inappropriate situations, always making you grin stupidly again. Brian sometimes teased you about it; how you could completely zone out while hanging onto your thoughts. Sometimes even during gym class. You resurfaced and admonished yourself to pay attention. The next second a basketball hit you in the face. “Ow,” you complained. From the corner of your eyes you saw Brian’s grin – the new one, the tongue in cheek grin that you loved so fucking much – and, despite the painful burn in your cheek from where the ball had hit you, you grinned back.  
  
“Taylor!” the PE teacher exclaimed, “pay attention! Why’s your mind not in the game?”  
  
You decided to take that for a rhetorical question, sure the teacher wouldn’t be comfortable with any of the answers you could have easily come up with.


	10. "Blissful ignorance."

**> October 2008<**  
  
One month later Northgate High played a soccer match against Weatherly High School. Despite Brian having healed completely from his recent beating, he didn’t get to play. His coach kept him on the bench the entire game, saying that because he missed so much of the practice hours, it would be irresponsible to put Brian on the field. The team played okay, but, even to your uneducated eyes, uninspired and the game ended in a tie. Despite this lack of success, Brian didn’t get to play in the next match either, the official excuse this time being that it was a sort of punishment for his quarrel with Mitch. It was a more than hypocritical excuse since Mitch got to play in both matches.  
  
Barely two months after that Brian got kicked off the team with one flimsy excuse. In hindsight, you had seen it coming and couldn’t help but blame yourself a little for it too. It wasn’t like you were flaunting your relationship – if it was one at all, you hadn’t had the talk yet that determined the status of your friendship – but it was clear as day that you were more than just buddies. Not that you tried very hard to cover it up. You were careless; both of you were. To your defense – neither of you had the experience how to be inconspicuous about it and, being in love for the first time, you didn’t have the presence of mind to change anything about your behavior. Every morning the two of you entered the school building together. You always ate together and, though you would learn that only much later, your seating arrangements during lunch were also a cause for gossip. You didn’t sit across from each other, but beside each other. You liked feeling the warmth of his thigh against your own and didn’t give a fleeting thought to who might be watching and what they would think about it. After lunch, you always disappeared together and you always waited for Brian after the last period to leave the school with him.  
  
It was a boring routine, maybe, but to you, those minutes and hours of the day that you could spend with Brian were the most exciting ever. You were ignorant to everything around you, blissfully so. Things changed dramatically for the worst the day Brian didn’t meet you at the entrance to the locker rooms after PE. It was more than thirty minutes after the period was over and even the players from the soccer team were already back from the field and done with showering. But no sight of Brian. You glanced nervously at your watch, the unease growing with every passing minute. You decided to give him five more minutes before making a round in search for him. Fifteen minutes later you finally abandoned your waiting post and slowly walked in the direction of the soccer field, all the while glancing around you, hoping to spot him leaning against a wall and smoking, maybe.  
  
Eventually you gave up and walked towards the now empty student parking lot, your beaten Jeep Wrangler the only car left in the place. You got in, hesitated before starting the motor as if hoping that he’d suddenly appear from somewhere, yelling, “Surprise.” But he didn’t and eventually you turned the key and navigated the car home. The drive was short for which you were thankful. There was this sinking feeling in your stomach that made you nauseous. You didn’t yet know why or how, but you knew that things had changed. They’d never be the same as before. This little reprieve that you got, this short period of time where you were happy with Brian and untroubled, it’s been just a moment in time. And that moment was over now.


	11. "I don't talk to people."

**> November 2008<**  
  
Brian didn’t own a cellphone anymore. His old one broke a few weeks ago, when his father pushed him against a door jamb. Brian couldn’t afford a new one. And he asked you once, no, actually, he  _insisted_  that you never come to his place. Not ever! After two days of his absence in which he didn’t call you, or came to school, or appeared at your window in the middle of the night in some cheesy imitation of Romeo or some equally pathetic love-struck lunatic, you were more than ready to break the promise that he’d forced out of you. You’d spent the entire school day devising a plan of action. So far you’d only decided to ring the doorbell of his parents’ home; you had yet to come up with a believable reason for doing so. If Brian had stayed home because he was hurt, you couldn’t let it show that you knew what was going on in his home. If Brian was missing school for a different reason and hadn’t told his parents that he was skipping school, you had to be careful not to give him away. And if they did know, your reason for showing up on their doorstep had to be plausible. You wished you were a better liar; or at least somewhat more talented at improvisation. You cursed the sheltered happy home life your parents provided you with during those formative years. And also your fair complexion which showed every tiny bit of a blush or embarrassment.  
  
You grew more nervous with every minute that brought you closer to the end of PE, your last period. You still hadn’t come up with a plan of action, but despair was driving you forward anyway, a far greater force than fear or panic. You were so jittery as you dressed in your normal clothes, you needed three attempts to get your legs into your jeans. When you finally managed to pull the zipper close and push your feet into your sneakers, you bolted out the locker rooms, the jacket that you only had time to push one of your arms into, billowing behind you. Your palms were so sweaty, you dropped your car keys twice before you reached the parking lot. You were still not used to having a car. It was a used one that your mother helped you pay for and Brian helped you choose. It didn’t look like much, but it got you from A to B and as far as you were concerned that was everything you could expect from a car that was almost as old as you. It would get you to Brian’s home in no time, where public transportation would have taken almost an hour and you would have needed to change buses twice. Too much time; possibly enough to change your mind too.  
  
You dropped your keys again. This time not because you were nervous but because you were taken so much by surprise, your muscles went lax.  
  
Brian. He stood there, leaning back against the vehicle, with his elbows propped against the hood of your car. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.  
  
Anger and relief alternated as they washed over you in angry hot and calmingly cool waves. You wanted to yell at him and kiss him all at the same time. But instead, you grabbed the smoke from his lips and threw it behind you, hissing, “What the fuck are you doing smoking in the parking lot? Someone’s gonna see you. You could get in a lot of trouble for it.”  
  
“Who’s gonna see me, Sunshine?” he sneered. You didn’t like the way he said ‘Sunshine’. Before, he always used it gently; sometimes he whispered it. It was like a secret code between the two of you. But it didn’t sound right anymore. “Those pathetic losers that are supposed to teach and educate us? They are so much in a hurry to get home to their pathetic little lives and their perverse little hobbies, the school could explode behind their backs and they wouldn’t notice.”  
  
You could only stare at him. It wasn’t the words that shocked you or the cold tone of voice in which he’d said them. It was his face. There was a hardness in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before and lines around his mouth that were new also. They gave his face a sneering, distant expression. It made a cold shiver ripple down your back. You didn’t know this Brian. And you weren’t sure you liked him. You still loved him though and that particular realization – that you could love someone you didn’t like – it hit you like a ton of bricks, making you wobble on your feet slightly. No, you surpassed ‘schoolboy crush’ so long ago, it was merely a tiny speck of dust in your vision by now.  
  
“What happened?” you asked, or rather croaked.  
  
“Nothing happened,” he replied, not looking you in the eyes. “I’m fabulous. Don’t I look it?” He pushed off the car and, spreading his arms, spun around once. He looked thin; thinner than you remembered him being, though, because it wasn’t so long since the last time you’d seen him, you conceded that your eyes were playing tricks on you. But most of all he looked cold.  
  
“Why are you like this?” you asked, praying very hard that he hadn’t heard the tremble in your voice. He scared you a little.  
  
“Like what?” He heaved a great put-upon sigh.  
  
“You know what I mean. Stop being an asshole, because you’re not going to scare me away.” It was a lie, but he seemed to buy it. And maybe there was more truth to it than even you imagined after all. But he remained quiet and so you tried again. “Why did you come here? Where have you been the last two days?” And the most important question right now, “What happened?” This time you pleaded for an answer, needing to know. The not knowing made it impossible for you to react to his mood and the situation. “You can talk to me. You know that, don’t you?” You didn’t care anymore how desperate you sounded.  
  
“Let’s go for a ride,” he said, ignoring all your pleas and walking around the car to the passenger’s seat. He stood and waited for you to unlock your car, but you couldn’t move.  
  
“No.” Your answer shocked the both of you into momentary silence. “I don’t know what happened to you and whatever it was, I’m sorry that it did because you’re obviously suffering. But I’m not going to let you treat me like that. If you are my friend, if you’ve been my friend those last few months, then you’re going to talk to me. And answer my questions. Because  _I_  am still  _your_  friend.”  
  
For the first time his emotionless mask slipped a little. It was only a moment, but it was enough to turn your insides into stone. He was so obviously hurting, it pained you to see him. And there was a fresh and hopeless despair in his haunted eyes that overwhelmed you in its intensity.  
  
“Thought it would have made the rounds by now,” Brian quietly replied. He spoke in a voice pitched so low, you had to step closer to hear him.  
  
“I don’t talk to people,” you reminded him. Aside from Daphne, who was still a model student at St. James Academy, Brian was your only friend. Whatever the gossip was that currently made the rounds at Northgate High, it hadn’t reached your ears yet. “And you haven’t even bothered to call,” you added, not able to keep the accusation from your voice.  
  
“I don’t have a phone,” he replied and you rolled your eyes. Cell phones weren’t the only option of communication. If he’d really wanted to talk to you, he would have found several ways to do so. It was that knowledge that hurt you most of all. Obviously something really bad had happened, but despite how close you’ve grown over the past months, he hadn’t come to you. He hadn’t needed you. But you always needed him. All the time. “I don’t have a car,” he continued, “I have no team, no scholarship, no college. I have nothing. My dad is gonna be so thrilled to hear that I’ll be working in the factory with him.”  
  
His body finally lost its rigor and he sagged against the car, crossing both arms over its roof and leaning his face into them.  
  
It was your turn to be petrified now. “They took away your scholarship?”  
  
“They will once they find out I was kicked off the team.”  
  
You didn’t know what to say, so you remained quiet and unlocked the door, getting in behind the wheel. You leaned over and released the lock on his side too. He followed suit and climbed into the car as well. You both stared ahead, none of you saying anything.  
  
It wasn’t about soccer. It wasn’t about who got to play or who was captain. All of it had just been means to an end. It had been Brian’s ticket out of this town, and out of this life that offered no more prospects than a shift overseer at the local packaging factory.  
  
“No,” you said. “No,” voice firmer now, “this can’t be it. There must be a way. We’ll find a way. There is a way. We just have to find it.” This was better. You were rambling and you had no actual idea what you were talking about, but it was better than giving in to despair and hopelessness. “Have you talked to anyone about it?”  
  
“What’s there to talk about?” he asked back. “If I can’t play, I don’t meet the requirements that would qualify me for a scholarship. It’s as simple as that. I’ve lost everything.”  
  
“Not everything.”  
  
Brian’s head turned in your direction, eyes finding yours. “Haven’t I?”  
  
“No,” you confirmed. “You’ll never lose me.”  
  
You stared at each other for several minutes, barely daring to blink. His shell broke eventually and he grabbed for you, pulling you across the center console and enveloping you in his arms. His grip was so tight, it was almost choking you, but you didn’t complain. His head burrowed between your neck and shoulder, his hands fisting your shirt and jacket on your back. There were no tears. The sobs were dry, but every one of his heaves shattered your world a little more. Ignoring the awkward position and the occasional student who dared to peek surreptitiously inside, you held him as tight as you could, waiting for his body to work through the shock and the numbness, all the while feeling like you’d just pulled him away from a precipice at the last possible second.


	12. "We can stick with your story."

**> November 2008<**  
  
You unlocked the door to the condo you and your mom called home now. She’d be home in about an hour or so, so you didn’t bother calling out for her. Stepping over the threshold, you froze and glanced back at Brian. He’d followed you out the car, but not inside. Instead, he was still standing beside the passenger’s door, treading from one foot to the other nervously.  
  
“Come on in,” you invited him. “My mom isn’t home yet.”  
  
He took a hesitating step towards you. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” he said. “How is your mom supposed to help? She’s not a lawyer or anything.”  
  
No, she wasn’t. But she was a grown-up you could talk to. And didn’t grown-ups usually know about this stuff? Well, it had sounded like a good idea when you first proposed it in the parking lot of your school. It was still better than doing nothing. “We can at least ask her, okay? She’s not going to hit us over the head for asking.” You extended your arm toward him in invitation. Giving you one last doubtful look, he finally took your hand and followed you inside.  
  
Your mom was a realtor now; she knew how to dress up homes to look pretty. And somehow, despite her crazy schedule, she still managed to make yours always look impeccable. You were about to wander off in the direction of the kitchen – the first trip whenever you came home always took you there – but you had to stop when you noticed Brian and the way he was taking in the surroundings.  
  
The condo wasn’t big by anyone’s standards. And not particularly sophisticated, but Brian stared fascinated at everything around him like he’d suddenly found himself in a manor. You didn’t want to know what his house looked like.  
  
“Are you hungry?” you asked, jarring him from whatever thoughts he was immerged in.  
  
He just nodded and followed you to the kitchen, but his head was still swiveling back and forth, taking everything in.  
  
You checked the fridge and the cupboards and started pulling out stuff you’d need to make two sandwiches. “So,” you tried to make conversation, “you haven’t been to school the last couple of days.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Okay. New try. “I know your dad works, but doesn’t your mom wonder why you’re home from school?”  
  
“I wasn’t home. I left in the morning and came back in the evening. Guess they assumed I’ve been going to school.” Unlike your own mother, Brian’s probably never asked him about how his school day had been.  
  
You sighed, deep and cleansing. This was going nowhere. It wasn’t that you wanted to know where he’d been – though you were curious. But everything that you needed to know, you did know – which was that Brian was okay. For now. And still you were feeling like you were losing ground, feeling the fragile connection between you two slowly melting away, just like before when you met him at the car. Brian was slipping away again.  
  
He was retreating into himself or distancing himself from everything and you could feel it. The more he disguised his feelings, the colder you felt. You were close to freezing point right now.  
  
Abandoning the knife and the jar of mustard, you wiped your hands on a dish towel and went to him. He’d remained standing close to the kitchen counter in the middle of the room, as though he didn’t dare sit down on one of the stools.  
  
You stood in front of him, invading his private space and fixing his eyes, waiting till his met yours. When they did, you reached for his hands and, closing your own eyes, pulled them to your face. His palms were warm as they cupped your cheeks. He sometimes liked to do this when you kissed and you hoped he’d remember that now and that it would help him find his way back. Back to himself and back to you.  
  
It comforted you a little that his hands remained where you put them even after yours fell away. His thumbs slowly moved, ghosting over the skin of your face, unerringly finding their way to your lips. They retraced the rim of your mouth again and again. The feeling was hypnotic and eventually you dared opening your eyes again. His face was in your direct line of vision and his eyes were closed now. He looked completely his old self again and you wanted to tell him. Right this moment, you wanted to tell him that you loved him and that you needed him. That you couldn’t imagine your life without him; that you didn’t even want to try. That it hurt you to see him so broken and helpless and that you’d do anything –  _anything_  – to help him. But mostly you wanted him to know that you would go on loving him, no matter what else life or fate held in store for the both of you.  
  
You didn’t though. You were too scared to do it. Not scared to say the actual words; you were scared because you felt like this was your first, last, and only chance to speak them and the idea alone was enough to render you completely speechless.  
  
So you just stood there, inching closer to his body until you touched. His arms came around you again, this time gentle and caressing. Inside those arms, the world was still alright. You wished you could stay there forever.  
  
“Does your mom know?” he asked, breaking the comfortable silence.  
  
“Know about what?”  
  
“You.”  
  
“About me being gay, you mean?”  
  
Brian nodded.  
  
“Yeah, she knows. She’s okay with it.”  
  
“What are you going to tell her about me?” Brian asked.  
  
You tried to gauge from his facial expression what he meant by that. The status of your relationship? The conditions of his home life? The true reason for him getting kicked off the team? “The truth,” you said. “That you’re a friend and that you got sacked unfairly.”  
  
Maybe you were interpreting his reaction wrong, but you thought he wasn’t completely satisfied with your answer.  
  
“What would you want me to tell her?” you asked, giving him an opportunity to voice whatever it was that seemed to trouble him.  
  
“That’s okay. We can stick with your story,” he gave back and, again, you were certain he was distancing himself from you. Not physically; his arms held you as tight as before. But his body had grown stiffer, more rigid, as though he was preparing for a blow. Your heart clenched for him again and you wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. Brian was such a wonderful, honest, brave, and talented person. And everyone around him – his parents, his so-called friends and buddies from the team, his coach, and all of his teachers – they were systematically destroying all that was good about him. How much longer would you be able to hold the self-doubts and despair at bay before they consumed him? And in the process, you as well.  
  
“It’s not a story,” you implored. “I’m not lying when I tell Mom that we’re friends, am I? And she doesn’t need to know if we’re more than that.”  
  
The corners of his mouth slowly, very slowly, pulled up, creating the most wonderful smile you’ve ever seen. Even his eyes suddenly seemed lighter; more green, the golden specks within the brown more pronounced. You could smile easier again, knowing that, at least for the moment, you were able to lift his worries. He nodded once, biting down on his lower lip, and adjusted the grip of his arms around your middle. His hands slipped under your shirt. They were still cool from being outside for too long and you shivered. Or maybe it wasn’t the coldness at all; maybe it was the feel of his fingertips on your back that was causing these delicious ripples. Whatever it was, you pressed closer to him, feeling other parts of his body tense and grow hard.  
  
Your lips collided, hungry for each other as they always were. You shrugged off of your jacket that was still hanging on your shoulders and moaned when you had to let go of Brian for the moment or two it took you to get rid of it. Not caring where it landed, you let it fall to the floor and wound your arms around Brian’s neck again.  
  
He smelled of cigarettes – a scent which your brain learned to translate in its very own way, it drove you mad with desire for Brian. You started rubbing your lower half against his, the feel of the rough denim against your dick, muted only by the thin fabric of your underwear, posed a glorious addition to the overwhelming feelings that were driving your body.  
  
This was as far as you’ve gone so far, but now you wanted more. Well, it wasn’t just now that you started to want more. You’ve basically wanted more since that first kiss months ago. But Brian was the first you’ve ever had these feelings for. He was the first boy you’d ever kissed, or touched, the first one you ever fell in love with; he was the first everything. You wanted and hoped he’d be the first in other aspects too. Only, you weren’t sure if you were ready for those other first things. And for some inexplicable reason you felt like time was running away from you.  
  
“Brian?” You broke away from him, panting.  
  
“Hmm?” He continued to nibble on your throat. His tongue and lips were almost enough to make you forget what you wanted to ask.  
  
It took a few moments for your power of speech to return after Brian’s lips closed around your earlobe. “Have you ever… you know, done things with a guy before?”  
  
He let go of your ear and pulled back a few inches to look in your face. Then he nodded. He considered you a while and apparently decided to tell you, because he said, “Blew my coach when I was fourteen.”  
  
Your eyes almost bulged at the news. “Coach Yeager? But he’s like, a hundred. And he has a beer belly!”  
  
“No, not Coach Yeager. We had a different coach back then. He was the one who got me into soccer. Said, I could go to college if I was any good. Nobody ever went to college in my family.” The last was said with a hint of sad wistfulness. You searched your mind, trying to come up with something to say that wouldn’t pull him down even more or remind him of his current situation. But after a moment’s pause it was Brian himself who changed the topic. Or rather stayed with the original one. “Wanted to fuck me too,” Brian continued. “But I said no. He was okay with that. Didn’t pressure me or anything.”  
  
“Have you fucked anyone?” You hated that your voice sounded so awed. It’d always been clear to you that Brian was more experienced in the field of sexual relations than you were, but – seriously – what teenager wasn’t? Sometimes you thought you were the latest late-bloomer that ever bloomed. But, up until now, you’ve never considered the possibility that Brian had gone all the way already.  
  
“Fucked a lot of girls,” Brian answered.  
  
You couldn’t help but cringe. Daphne had asked you once if you would fuck her. She didn’t want to lose her virginity to someone who didn’t care enough about her to be gentle and to take it slowly. But you’d declined. You wanted your first time to be with a guy, preferably one you liked well enough to do it with. You’d never expected to be in love when it happened. But now there was Brian and you knew, just knew, that there’d never be someone else. At least not in your heart. And though he didn’t know it yet, you’d already decided that Brian was going to be your first.  
  
“It’s really not that big a difference,” Brian laughed when he saw your disgusted face.  
  
“So you’ve fucked guys too?” Where else would he have acquired the knowledge to compare?  
  
He nodded again. “This summer, when I was bussing tables in the diner. On my break, in one of the stalls at the men’s room. And the summer before that, at soccer camp.”  
  
You had to swallow. What was he doing with someone as inexperienced as you were?  
  
Maybe he’d read you r mind. Or maybe it was the overall horniness that had possessed the both of you, but his lips attached themselves to yours again a moment later and, between kisses, he murmured, “You have the most amazing mouth.” He kissed you again, tongue diving into your cavern, then added, “And you taste like…” He released a sound that was half moan, half pleasurable memory. “…like hmmm cranberries.”  
  
“That’s creative,” you panted, breath catching as he walked you backwards until your back collided with something solid enough to support both of your weight. His hips grinded against yours; your head fell back, your mouth opened, soft puffs of air escaping. You’ve done that before, but never to completion. Usually, he’d stop when either of you got really close to the finish line. Today, this afternoon in your mother’s condo, you didn’t want him to stop. To get the message across, your hands did something they’d never done before. They released his shoulders and slid around, to his front. Gliding your palms down his chest and firm stomach, you reached the fly of his jeans and were about to pull it down when his hands on yours stopped you.  
  
He looked into your eyes, not saying a word. You knew what they were asking and the answer to all of his questions was ‘yes’. With one last scrutinizing look, he dived down, mouth capturing yours, hands holding your hips steady. His movements grew jerkier, rougher, evidently moving purposefully toward a goal. You copied his movements and he let go of your hips, hands instead roaming your body. Your clothes were in the way, making you groan in frustration repeatedly but neither of you thought about removing the obstacles. Instead, you frantically searched and found already exposed bits of skin, kissing, licking, biting, caressing in irrationally hurried alternations.  
  
All of his touches and kisses and muttered nonsensical moans grew into a cacophony of emotions and impressions, smells and sounds, and heat until you thought you couldn’t take it anymore. You were about to erupt when—  
  
“Honey? I’m home.”


	13. "Cautiously optimistic."

**> November 2008<**  
  
Your mother’s voice was worse than a cold shower rousing you from a pleasant nap, worse than a thousand ice-cubes down the back of your shirt, worse than a dream where you stood naked in front of a class full of people coming true.  
  
Your erection flagged, but blood was still pumping hotly through your body, making it throb painfully. Brian, who’d pushed away from you when your mom’s voice boomed through the house, went from catatonic to frenzied straightening of his clothes in a matter of seconds. Thankfully, you were both still clothed, though somewhat disheveled.  
  
“We’re in the kitchen,” you replied, your voice sounding strange to your own ears – shaky and breathless.  
  
“We?” your mother wondered as she entered.  
  
Somehow you managed to look busy preparing the sandwich, a task you’d abandoned before. Brian stood at the end of the counter, one hand gripping the edge so hard, his knuckles had turned white.  
  
“Hey, Mom,” you greeted her, trying to appear cheery. But damn it, you still sounded out of breath. You tried to make up for it with a big smile. In retrospect, you wondered if maybe the smile was what gave you away, it was so bright. “You’re home early.”  
  
She glanced at her watch. “No, actually, I’m a bit late.” Her head tilted in that scrutinizing way when she was trying to see right through you.  
  
You deflected. “Mom, this is Brian. He’s a friend from school.”  
  
Your mother held your eyes for a moment longer before she turned her attention on Brian. “Hello, Brian.”  
  
“Mrs. Taylor.” Brian nodded tersely.  
  
“I was just making sandwiches,” you babbled. The situation was too awkward and you didn’t know what to say or do; that’s when you usually resorted to babbling. “Do you want one too?”  
  
Mom held up a brown paper bag with the logo of that Thai restaurant that was your favorite. “I picked up some Pad Thai and Moo Satay on my way home.” Turning to Brian, she extended an invitation, “You’re welcome to join us for dinner if you haven’t eaten yet.”  
  
He just shook his head, though whether he was declining the invitation or answering the question about whether he’d eaten yet remained a mystery. At the questioning glance of your mother, Brian explained, “No, I haven’t eaten, but I don’t want to intrude.” Strangely, your mother didn’t object or try to change his mind. But you’d ponder this later. “Mrs. Taylor, I’ve only come here because Justin said you’d… that I could talk to—” He looked helplessly at you.  
  
“Mom, there’s this problem I hoped you could help Brian with.” She looked curiously at you, so you motioned for her to sit down while you continued, “Brian was captain of the soccer team at Northgate, but he was kicked off the team recently. And now he’s going to lose his scholarship and won’t be able to go to college.”  
  
Your mom directed her gaze at Brian. It was a mix of pity and lack of understanding. “I’m sorry, but why don’t you—”  
  
Before she could voice her questions or objections, you cut her off with, “He can’t talk to his parents, Mom.” From the corner of your eyes you saw Brian glance at you with slight panic on his face. “They don’t want him to go to college. So they won’t help.”  
  
You felt more than saw the relieved sigh from Brian.  
  
“Justin, I’m sorry, I don’t know what you want me to do. Shouldn’t he be talking to the coach or something?”  
  
You didn’t like that she was talking about Brian in the third person, as if he wasn’t there. You stared at her, horrified that she’d forget her manners like that the first time you brought home a friend. She always worried that you spent too much time on your own; that you weren’t making friends easily. You never expected her to treat a friend of yours like this.  
  
Apparently she understood your shocked expression because the next moment she turned to Brian and said, “I don’t know why they kicked you off the team.” She paused here to give Brian an opportunity to explain the reason, but he remained quiet and so did you. The real reason was simple - because Brian was gay. But nobody would ever admit that they’d sacked him because of that. Besides, even now that Brian had outed himself in school, it didn’t mean that he would be running around, advertising this fact to every stranger. And though your mom was your mom, to Brian she  _was_  a stranger. Besides, you didn’t know if Brian had ever said the words before. He didn’t have to during the incident at school and, though he never said anything, you were sure his parents didn’t know. You didn’t want to think about what would happen to Brian if his father found out. You shook your head to dispel the straying thoughts and remembered the day when you came out to your parents. Because you knew from your own experience how difficult and terrifying it could be to say the words for the first time, you weren’t going to out Brian before he was ready to do it himself. Your ma, though you didn’t know what she must have assumed, accepted the silence. “Okay,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me. But isn’t it something you could talk to your coach or the headmaster to? Whatever the wrongdoing you’re being punished for is, maybe you could come to a different agreement. If you apologized or something.”  
  
“He didn’t do anything wrong,” you exploded. “He has  _nothing_  to apologize for.” Your mother’s eyes narrowed and at first you thought it was because she was angry with you at your blow-up. But then she tilted her head and looked you curiously, again trying to see right through you, and you avoided her gaze, choosing to glance at Brian instead.  
  
Brian’s calm look quieted you down. You fell silent so that he could have the word. “They won’t let me back on the team. That’s not an option.”  
  
“Okay,” your mother drawled.  
  
“We hoped maybe you’d have an idea how Brian would be able to go to college without a scholarship that would take care of the tuition costs,” you cut in again.  
  
“Honey, you’re not giving me a whole lot of information here,” your mother complained. Turning to Brian she asked, “I guess you have your eyes set on a particular college?” Brian shrugged indifferently at that. He had, but only because they were going to take care of the expenses. “I guess you could always apply for a community college,” your mom continued, “they’re usually less expensive than a four-year university. Or you could apply for a student loan, get financial aid.”  
  
“What do I have to do to get that?”  
  
“I’m not an expert, Brian. There’s parent-independent funding; you’d have to be declared emancipated by a judge and there’s a huge legal process involved in that, as well as certain stipulations that are attached to it.” She sighed with exhaustion, indicating that she didn’t think it was the right direction for Brian to follow. “Brian, have you talked to a guidance counselor? They can help you much better than I could.”  
  
He shook his head. No, Brian hadn’t. He hadn’t been to school the last couple of days.  You felt a tiny speck of hope rekindled in your heart and smiled encouragingly at Brian. “I’ll do that,” Brian said, giving you a brief smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Taylor.”  
  
Your mother smiled tight-lipped in response. An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room. Your mother continued to smile politely, Brian was nervously treading from one foot to the other, and you announced, “Mom, I’m going to give Brian a ride home. I’ll be back in a few.”  
  
“That’s okay,” Brian replied. “I can walk. Got a couple of things to think through.”  
  
“Oh, okay,” you answered. You were disappointed, though you tried not to show it. You probably failed. Brian nodded towards the door and you showed him outside.  
  
“I’m sorry my mom was so...” You searched for a word. “...cold to you.” You glanced at the entrance door. You hadn’t closed it completely behind you, but hoped you were out of earshot anyway.  
  
“Don’t be,” Brian protested, “she was nice enough, considering we sprang this on her. Actually, she gave me an idea.”  
  
You watched him carefully, searching for signs of distress, but finding none. In fact, Brian seemed lighter somehow. He didn’t look as crestfallen as he did before, in the parking lot. Maybe your mom did help after all. Whatever it was, Brian looked cautiously optimistic again.  
  
“Will I see you tomorrow at school?” you asked tentatively.  
  
“Definitely,” he answered.  
  
The promise was enough for today.


	14. "Blame it on the hormonal teenager part."

**> November 2008<**  
  
Your mom was in the process of putting the food she’d bought onto plates when you came back to the kitchen. She stopped when she saw you and stared at you silently. You stared back. Gratefulness and anger warred inside you and you weren’t sure which was winning out. So you waited.  
  
Suddenly, your mother deflated, seemed to sink in on herself and released a long, suffering breath. “Oh, Justin.”  
  
You didn’t know what exactly merited an ‘Oh, Justin’ right then, but you weren’t about to ask either.  
  
“Why was Brian kicked off the team, Justin? Was it drugs?”  
  
“What?!?! No! God, Mom, Brian needs a friend right now, not someone who will judge and condemn him.” Okay, so apparently, anger was winning out. Who’d have guessed, you thought not without irony. At least you could always blame it on the hormonal teenager part of you. But, jeez, how could she just jump to conclusions like that?!  
  
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” your mom continued her train of thought. “You make it sound like something very serious that got him expelled from the team and you won’t tell me.”  
  
“It wasn’t drugs,” you insisted. You couldn’t say more; you’d never betray Brian’s trust like that. “He’s just a friend in need.”  
  
“Justin, honey, we both know that Brian isn’t just a friend,” she said flatly.  
  
Your mouth fell open and your brain was trying to come up with an adequate answer, and you had probably hesitated one moment too long. Your mom sighed and pointed towards your jacket that you’d abandoned before, when Brian and you got overwhelmed by mutual horniness. It hung neatly over the back of a chair now.  
  
“I don’t remember you throwing your clothes to the floor before. Especially not your new jacket,” she said in explanation.  
  
“Was that why you were so rude to him?” The idea had suddenly occurred to you.  
  
“Don’t make this into a gay thing, Justin. I would have been just as surprised if I’d caught you with a girl. And I wasn’t rude to him; I was flustered. You took me completely by surprise. You tell me that something happened, something bad enough that Brian got kicked off the team for but neither of you is ready to tell me what that something was.” Okay, so maybe she had a point there. “And you seem involved somehow—” She broke off here, releasing a sound that you interpreted as dawning comprehension. The expression in her eyes softened when she looked at you again and a sad smile played on her lips. “I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to put two and two together,” she muttered to herself.  
  
You flushed lightly, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden. She looked like he wanted to talk about it, but you weren’t ready for it, so you deflected. “You didn’t catch us at anything,” you protested, but could feel yourself turning even redder nevertheless.  
  
“Oh, please, I’m not as ancient or clueless as you might think me to be.”  
  
You didn’t comment. Maybe she took your silence for consent for her to continue.  
  
“So, were you going to tell me?” You looked at her, not comprehending. She elaborated, “About you having a boyfriend.”  
  
“Uhm, I’m not sure that’s what he is,” you replied honestly.  
  
“Let me guess… It’s complicated?” She smiled with understanding; something you hadn’t expected. Then she got up and got the plates she filled earlier. The food was probably cold by now, but you knew neither of you cared. Actually, you both preferred Pad Thai cold. It was a shared taste that your father never understood and used to make jokes about.  
  
“We haven’t talked about it,” you answer, not sure if it was an answer at all.  
  
“Just promise me something,” she said. “Promise that you two will be careful.”  
  
“Mom!” The evening was full of embarrassments, as it seemed.  
  
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. If you don’t want to have the talk with me, just promise and we’ll be done with it.”  
  
“I promise, I promise!” You started eating, shoveling food into you and just now noticing how hungry you were.  
  
“Good. Thank you. Now that that’s settled, please tell Brian that I’ll be expecting him here for dinner. Say, Friday night? Do you think he’ll be free then? I want to apologize to him. And maybe see if there’s something I can help him with? Maybe help with filling out his student loan applications or whatever.”  
  
Sometimes you forgot how great a mom yours was. Somehow she always managed to remind you. And as for Brian joining you two for dinner, “I’m not sure he can come over on Friday. I’ll be sure to ask him though. But another night might be better.”  
  
“Sure, but why?” your mom asked. It was an innocent question, but one you couldn’t answer honestly.  
  
Fridays were difficult. That’s when his dad got home from work earlier than on the other weekdays. He often picked a fight with Brian then. And you wouldn’t want Brian to suffer through dinner after he’d had a run in with his dad.  
  
“Mom, there are things about Brian, about his life, that are up to him to share with other people. I can’t tell you. I want him to know that he can trust me.”  
  
"Okay, another evening then. Just let me know when would be convenient."  
  
You could only nod weakly, somewhat relieved that you were able to negotiate a reprieve for the time being, but queasy about not having been able to thwart your mother's plans of a more official meeting of The Boyfriend.  
  
She watched you for a few seconds, thoughtful and assessing. Then she returned to your previous statement and asked, “And do you trust him the same way?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“So you told him about your father?”  
  
That shut you up good. Your lack of reply apparently was all the answer she needed. She nodded again. She probably thought she had it all figured out, but she was wrong.  
  
“He’s got enough on his mind already,” you tried to defend; though whom exactly – him or yourself or the relationship that you were building – that you weren’t sure about. “I didn’t want to pile onto his problems. He’s got enough of his own.”  
  
“That’s not how a friendship works, Justin,” she answered quietly. It was funny, you thought, how the lectures that were quietly whispered always stuck with you better than the ones that were shouted or yelled. “Besides,” she added, “you haven’t told Daphne either.”  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
“I was showing a client a house in her neighborhood, ran into her afterwards. She asked about you and about your dad and me, and about the divorce. She was the same she always is. So, I figured, she probably doesn’t know.”  
  
“It’s not important,” you muttered.  
  
“It’s your father.”  
  
You pushed your plate away. You weren’t hungry anymore. Without asking if you were excused, you stood up and were about to leave the room to go upstairs when her voice stopped you short.  
  
“He’s dying, Justin. If you want to see him before he’s gone, you’ve gotta make up your mind fast.”  
  
Why did she always have to be so dramatic? He wasn't dying. He was in a coma.


	15. "People do that all the time, right?"

**> December 2008<**  
  
You waited outside the counselor’s office the entire time Brian was inside, crossing all the fingers you had and hoping for good news. You would have liked to offer to go in with him, but not only did it seem like too intimate a thing to suggest, you also didn’t want to add fuel to the rumors that were already circulating about Brian and you. Who knew what they would make of the fact that Brian was seeking counsel.  
  
When the door finally opened and Brian walked out, you bombarded him with questions.  
  
“How did it go? What did she say? Do you qualify for financial aid? Can you apply for a student loan? What do you have to do?”  
  
“Not here,” he cut you off and quickly walked towards the nearest exit.  
  
His behavior didn’t bode well for what he was going to tell you. Brian was tense and his step was quick and determined. Even though school was out for today and you could have gotten in your car and driven to wherever you wanted, he made for the bleachers. He slumped down on the lowermost bench and patted his pockets for cigarettes. You took it for another bad sign, but pulled out your pack of smokes and held it out towards him. He took one, placing it in the corner of his mouth, but not lighting it.  
  
“Shitty. That’s how it looks,” he answered the question in your eyes. Briefly glancing at you, he fixed a point in the far distance and stared ahead while he told his story. “Right now my parents are responsible for my education. They are obligated to pay, and if they refuse, which they will… Well, then I’m fucked. Basically.”  
  
“Are you sure your parents are so opposed to you going to college?” The last remnants of naïve hope flared up, but even as you said it you knew it was in vain. You’ve never met Brian’s parents, but Brian had emphasized several times that they weren’t too thrilled about his college plans, to put it mildly.  
  
“My dad,” Brian replied, “gets… violent every time I even mention college. How do you think he is going to react when I present the idea to him? Even better – what do you think his reaction will be when I tell him how much it is gonna cost?” Brian turned and stared at you when he said it. It was the first time he’d said out loud that his father was beating him. “I have to pay rent since I turned 18 because Dad thinks school is just an excuse not to go to work. He expects me to start at the packaging factory the day after I graduate.”  
  
You were silent after that. Brian looked embarrassed. He probably hadn’t intended to say half the things he did. And you didn’t know what to add to that. Your college education was paid for by a fund. “Then there must be another way.” You refused to believe that it all stood and fell with the parents.  
  
“There’s really not.” He sounded bitter and you couldn’t even fault him. “Okay, no, that’s not completely true. There are ways, but nothing that will go through in time for me to go to college at the same time that everyone else who graduates with us will.” And what he meant was that he wouldn’t be able to start college together with  _you_.  
  
“Okay.” You gulped, trying to sort through your thoughts. It was bad, you admitted to that; but it wasn’t completely hopeless, right? “Have you gone over those options? You’ve been in there,” you motioned towards the school building, meaning the counselor’s office, “for a long time.”  
  
“Yeah, she talked a lot. Told me about how I’m dependent on my parents to pay for me. And the only way to sidestep that is to become independent. Get emancipated.”  
  
“Then do that! Become emancipated. People do that all the time, right?”  
  
“I guess. God, Justin, it’s complicated. She practically swamped me with information; I don’t know what to do or where to go next. Gotta sort all of it out in my head first. So, can we not talk about it right now? Please?”  
  
“Sure,” you agreed, trying but failing to keep the hurt out of your voice. Whatever could you have said that wouldn’t have made you seem naïve and stupid? So you remained silent. In hindsight, you should have said something, even at the risk of sounding dumb.  
  
The realization wouldn’t dawn for a few more years, but once it did, the knowledge slammed into you with the force of a speeding train. He was waiting for you to assure him that, even if he didn’t go to college right away or never at all, you’d still be together. The idea that you wouldn’t be was so absurd that it didn’t even occur to you. You hadn’t known back then which school would take you, but it was obvious to both, you and Brian, that wherever you were going to go, Brian wouldn’t be able to follow. Not right then and maybe never. There would come a time when you’d wonder whether he actually expected you to stay in Pittsburgh for him, however far removed from his consciousness the thought might be. Did he want you to go to a different school – not actually a bad one, just not as good as the one you’ve had in mind? Was he expecting you to offer to make this sacrifice – for  _him_? And if so, would he have been asking for too much? Maybe. But was it wrong of you not to offer? Definitely.  
  
He stood up and walked away while you remained seated on the ice-cold bleachers, watching his retreating back and then, after he turned the corner, your own breath as it made puffy clouds in the December air. Eventually, the temperatures dropped to a point where you didn’t feel your hands and feet anymore and you shivered in your jacket.  
  
You sat by your window that night, keeping an eye out for him, hoping he’d come to talk, to devise a plan of action, to ask for help sorting through the mess he’d found himself in. But the night continued on, depressingly black and decidedly Brian-free. It snowed for the first time that evening. When your eyes got tired scanning the street for his familiar form that never came, you watched the falling snow instead, staring as it swirled around the yellow bulbs of the streetlamps before it covered the ground in white, burying all the ugliness of a slushy fall underneath a cold blanket.  
  
You dreamt of funerals when you fell asleep.  
  


**

  
  
  
  
His visits to the school became sporadic, his absences from class grew more common than his attendances and he barely spoke a word to you even if he did come to class. He avoided your gaze in Art History, made sure to leave the room before you’d even begun packing together your stuff, and generally avoided you in the halls. You don’t know where he ate his lunch because he was neither in the cafeteria nor at the bleachers and even your spot behind the toolshed remained unvisited. You tolerated it for one week before you couldn’t keep the accusation and hurt from your face and he stopped coming to school completely, though if it was because of that, you would never know.  
  
You let the anger inside you build up until it reached new and formerly unknown heights and you felt like close to eruption every single second of every day. It was a good thing you didn’t have friends; you would have lost them all, blowing up in their faces; just like you did whenever your mother prodded you. It was the first time in your life that you experienced what it meant to hate Brian, even if only a little, because your anger and worry and… love always overclouded the hate an instant after it surged. It wouldn’t be the last time though. During all that time, it never occurred to you that Brian avoided you because he was ashamed.  
  
You ran into him once. It was an accident; you haven’t been hounding the places he usually hung out at, like the last time. You went Christmas shopping. In fact, you were looking for a present for Brian, because no matter the nebulous state of your relationship, you  _had_  to get him something.  
  
The shopping center was crowded, but he stood out. Maybe because he was with a girl. She wasn’t particularly pretty, rather on the mousy side of life. But your jealousy was powerful and strong and you felt almost overwhelmed by the nauseating feeling in your stomach. You froze when you saw him; they were walking in your direction, less than five yards away from you. You knew the exact moment that he saw you too. His eyes fixed on yours, but only for a second before he broke the contact and started speaking animatedly to his female friend and pointing to an aisle to his side before making a sharp half-turn and disappearing there.  
  
You stood there, feeling like a bucket of ice-cold water was just emptied over your head. Even when you learned later that it was his sister Claire and not his girlfriend or one of his former fangirls, it did nothing to soften the blow you felt when he so obviously publicly ignored you. The memory that he was ashamed of you to an extent that he wouldn’t even acknowledge knowing you – because, really, what had he been expecting, that you would fling your arms around his neck and sprinkle him with kisses all over, in the middle of a busy Christmas shopping crowd? The pain stayed with you for a long time.


	16. "I can't function without you."

**> December 2008<**  
  
Christmas came and, with it, winter break. In a quiet, private moment, you were able to admit that somewhere in the farthest back of your mind you were hoping to spend the holiday with Brian. You could deal with him not being there. What you could barely deal with was not knowing where he was or how he was doing. As expected, Christmas was a sad affair. To be honest, Christmas had been a sad affair also because your parents weren’t living together anymore. And there was, of course, the little but not insignificant fact of your father being in a coma.  
  
Most of the time you tried to avoid thinking about him at all cost. The last time you saw each other he’d been yelling at you, saying vile stuff and even going so far as to insinuate that your mother’s way of parenting had something to do with you turning out gay. You had made a grab for him at the remark. Except for a minor period of time where your mother had to adapt to your coming out, she’d always been supportive and understanding. When you’d lashed out at him, you weren’t trying to hurt him or anything; just make him stop saying the things he did. And he probably just reacted to your physical attack when he’d raised his arm to strike a blow and caught you squarely on the lip, splitting it. But you couldn’t forgive him anyhow. Not that he’d ever asked you to. Not for this, nor for the many other things he shouldn’t have been saying or doing that were prompted by your admitting to being gay.  
  
Which may or may not have been the reason why you were still thinking about going to visit him. Not that he’d know that you were there. The car had gotten him pretty good when he was crossing the street on a red light. Basically, and that you knew from your mother’s reports, he was being kept alive by machines. Sometimes, when you were feeling particularly nasty, you wondered why anyone even bothered. Yeah, you were being a horrible son, but he hadn’t been an exceptionally great example of a dad either, so you thought you kind of leveled each other out.  
  
Besides, the state he was in, he was practically gone already anyway. If you did decide to go and see him, presumably one last time, you wouldn’t be doing it for him. You’d be doing it for yourself. And you still were undecided whether this was something you wanted or needed to have closure. At least your mom had stopped pushing you to go. They were divorced, legally. Actually, the divorce had gone through the day your dad got hit by that car; in fact, he’d been on his way back from the attorney’s office where he’d just signed the papers when the accident happened. You couldn’t help but wonder if this was some sort of cosmic retribution or a balancing of sorts. But you were drifting. Your parents were divorced, all legal and official, but your mother was still your dad’s medical proxy. You didn’t know if it was by mutual agreement or if your dad simply hadn’t had the time to change the information on his statement.  
  
Your mother went by the hospital every day. And in your case, it was a mutual agreement, that those visits would not be mentioned in your home. You’d already said goodbye to your dad the day he left his family. And you’d already grieved for him. What else was a visit supposed to accomplish besides ripping open barely healed wounds.  
  
So you didn’t talk about it. And even though Christmas was supposed to be a family holiday, you didn’t talk about family on Christmas Eve either.  
  
“I’ve got a great idea,” your mother exclaimed.  
  
It was late. You’d fallen asleep watching  _It’s A Wonderful Life_  on DVD. When her voice jarred you awake, you saw the end credits run across the screen.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Tomorrow night, instead of having a Christmas dinner here at home, let’s go to a restaurant. It’s Christmas, right? So they won’t be fully booked yet. I’m sure we can still find a nice one. In fact, let’s splurge and go to the most expensive establishment we can find.” She was all eagerness for the idea. You weren’t really game, but that was only because all your thoughts were constantly on Brian and you really didn’t feel like going out.  
  
“We can’t afford that,” you tried.  
  
“We can’t afford doing that every night, true. But once a year? We can do that. Let’s make this our new Christmas tradition,” she enthused.  
  
Not really up to it, but not wanting to dampen her good mood either, you agreed. “Sure, Mom. Why not.”  
  
“Great! I’ll call right now and make some reservations. What do you say—”  
  
Her mind ran off with ideas and you let her.  
  


**

  
  
  
  
The dinner was surprisingly nice. You and your mom had a lot of fun ordering the most expensive dishes off the menu and she even let you drink from her wine glass when the waiter wasn’t looking. It being Christmas and all, they weren’t paying too close attention to your drinking. Your mom regaled you with storied from her job, telling about Mary Whatshername and Eugene, ‘the personified 1950s’, an agent from a competing real estate company. It was funny and you enjoyed laughing and joking with her. You even ordered a piece of each item on the dessert menu, snickering at the struggle of the waiter not to look at you funnily.  
  
Your bellies and doggie bags full, you arrived back at the condo close to midnight. The heating in your mother’s car had stopped working halfway on your way home, but for some reason instead of being pissed about it, you both found it hilarious. You were still laughing when you got out of the car. The laughter died down immediately when you spotted a huddled figure sitting on your step.  
  
Your mother didn’t realize immediately why you fell quiet all of a sudden, but then she followed your line of vision.  
  
“It’s freezing out here,” she said, after glancing a few times from him to you and back. “Don’t stay outside too long. I’ll be waiting in the kitchen with a hot cocoa. For both of you,” she whispered in your ear and kissed your temple.  
  
Tears suddenly sprang in your eyes and you fought very hard not to release them. You just nodded, voice blocked by the lump in your throat.  
  
She went inside, passing Brian with a nod and a smile and leaving the two of you alone.  
  
You took a few steps towards him, but stopped before coming too close to him. You didn’t trust your impulses right then; you wanted to kiss him and slap him at the same time. He had stood up when your car had arrived and was watching you, eyes fixed on your face and following your every move.  
  
“I missed you,” he said. You didn’t reply. It was not enough. Not today; not anymore. “I’m an asshole. But you told me that once, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise,” he continued, trying for a smile, but giving it up when it came out looking more like a grimace. You were still quiet. Not nearly enough. “I’ve been thinking… It wasn’t okay how I handled… what happened… everything… pushing you away.”  
  
You tilted your head to the side, motioning for him to continue and to signal that you were listening.  
  
“It wasn’t fair that I shut you out like that when you were trying your best to help me.”  
  
“No, it wasn’t,” you agreed. Maybe you were getting somewhere. Or maybe you were being too harsh. But you couldn’t help feeling the way you did. There had been a tacit consent between you two that stated it was you and Brian against the world. In your head you’d become an inseparable force and it was a bitter and sobering insight to accept that he’d bailed on you at the sight of first real trouble. You didn’t want it to be true and you would go on ignoring it for as long as you could, but you suspected that a portion of the trust you’d vested in him, or in you as a unit, was, if not gone, then at least severely damaged now. In the end, it all amounted to the simple acknowledging of an uncomfortable truth: You were not invincible, no matter what your age tried to make you believe.  
  
“I wanted to talk to you every day,” he muttered, eyes darting to the ground as if he was admitting defeat. “I can’t… I…” He stumbled over his own words. “I wanted to deal with it on my own.” When he saw your face in reaction to this statement, he hurried to explain, “No, not because I didn’t value your input. Or because I didn’t want your help. It was because I did want it too much. I should be able to handle certain things without the first thing on my mind being to run to you. God—” His hand ran through his hair; he looked frustrated as hell at not being able to find the right words. “But I don’t feel like I can.” He swallowed once. “I can’t need you like that.”  
  
“What?” You weren’t sure you completely understood.  
  
“I feel like…” He was visibly struggling with words, but you didn’t know where he was going, so you couldn’t help him with that. “I feel like I… like I can’t function without you. It’s unhealthy. This obsession I have with you… It’s unhealthy. I can’t… Fuck, Sunshine, we’re teenagers. And we’re gay. This is not some fairytale or Broadway musical. Soon you’ll be going off to college and all of this will be… forgotten. And—” He fell silent, not finishing his sentence. His head came up again and he was looking at you again.  
  
“I won’t forget,” you spoke quietly.  
  
His smile was sad. “It won’t matter. Whether you remember or not – it won’t matter.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because you’ll still be gone.”  
  
You took a step in his direction. “I was wrong,” you said. “You’re not an asshole. You’re a chicken.”  
  
His eyes shot up and he looked scandalized.  
  
“You’d rather not have,” you motioned wildly between you two, an all-encompassing gesture to indicate what you meant, “… _this_ …,” you said, not finding a better word to describe what you two had. Then you breathed a couple of times in and out, hoping your brain would catch up to what your mouth was trying to bring across. “You would rather not  _have_  at all than to have and be forced to let go. That’s cowardly.”  
  
He shrugged, not arguing. You took another step in his direction, now standing only inches apart. His eyes weren’t so sure now. They kept darting to your face and away. You sighed, partly in frustration, partly in defeat, and grabbed him, pulling him into a tight hug.  
  
“Coward,” you said again, but softly this time.  
  
He hugged you back, his cold nose burrowing into your neck and taking a deep breath, inhaling your scent. “This is wrong,” he breathed against your skin.  
  
“Because we’re gay.” You stated, reiterating his previous comment, but making it clear through the choice of your mocking tone that you didn’t necessarily agree with him.  
  
“And teenagers,” he reminded you, his hands slipping under your coat and coming to rest on your back. They felt like they belonged there. After a short pause, he spoke again. “What are the chances of it lasting?” he rhetorically asked.  
  
You wanted to ask if he wanted it to, if he had the same fantasies of you two living and sharing everything together – the same fantasies you sometimes indulged in. But you thought it would be pushing the envelope too much. He didn’t seem too stable right now and you knew that he wasn’t used to sharing this many feelings with anyone.  
  
You pulled away slightly and grabbed his hand. He winced a little and you pulled it up to inspect it. His knuckles were bloody. On further inspection you realized the skin had broken in several places; tiny grazes that had already crusted over.  
  
“Hit my dad,” he explained at your inquiring gaze.  
  
“What were you fighting about?”  
  
“Told him I wouldn’t be coming to work with him at the factory.”  
  
“What are you going to do instead?” you asked.  
  
“Don’t know. Anything. I’ll find a job somewhere.”  
  
You nodded and lured him inside with a cup of hot beverage and a warm kitchen. He followed willingly. Your mom didn’t bat an eye when you said Brian would spend the night in your room. It was only when you were falling asleep that you realized something. He was sleeping on the pull-out beside your bed, your fingers intertwined with his uninjured hand, the wrist now adorned with a cowry shell bracelet that you’d tied there a few hours ago. It was a cheap present, but his eyes had lit up when you gave it to him and you knew that he didn’t care for its monetary worth, and neither did you, too happy that you managed to work through the past few troublesome weeks and cleared the air. But as you were falling asleep, through the haze of half-lucidity, you realized he hadn’t mentioned your run-in at the shopping center. He also hadn’t apologized.


	17. "Your meeting hadn't been a coincidence."

**> January 2009<**  
  
You could ignore that last fact. The euphoria of the holidays and of being together again helped. Back then, there were a lot of things that you didn’t insist upon, which may or may not have been the reason why you didn’t talk about what would happen after winter break was over. Years later you would discover that your senior year of high school instilled certain characteristic qualities in you that you didn’t have before. The fact that so many things between you and Brian went unsaid, would, in the future, make you crave the words. Whether it was an ‘I’m sorry’ or an ‘I love you’ – you wanted, needed, longed to hear the words. Sometimes more desperately than you were comfortable admitting, even if only to yourself. You weren’t naïve – you knew how useless or meaningless words could be, how inflationary some people used to employ them. But in the authority of those who were economical with their use, words could be a powerful weapon and they retained a magic that you hadn’t experience again since when you were a little child and your mother read fairy tales to you. Actions, on the other hand, would forever remain ambiguous to you; you never trusted yourself to read them correctly and eventually you would stop trying altogether.  
  
But these realizations would only come years later and back in the now, you enjoyed your time with Brian. Sometimes you gently pressured him to move things forward, take steps that would lead him to being able to petition for emancipation eventually. It included moving out of his parents’ house and supporting himself which was no easy feat to any 17-year-old, so you accepted it when Brian refused and gave him more time. You figured after the stress and pain of the last few weeks, you both earned a few more days of peace and lightheartedness. There was still enough time to set the wheels in motion once the new semester started. A few more carefree days wouldn’t hurt anybody.  
  
Only, it wasn’t a few more days.  
  
On the last free evening before school started again you and Brian sat in your room, browsing through the latest movie releases, trying to choose one since both of you were in the mood for a movie and popcorn night and maybe a light making out session in the darkened back row of the movie theater.  
  
Brian pointed at one running in the theater closest to your mother’s condo, looking questioningly at you. You shook your head no. “Why not?” he asked. “When we saw the trailer for it, you said you wanted to see it.”  
  
“I do,” you confirmed, “but this showing is too late. It’s a school night,” you reminded him.  
  
Brian’s mouth opened to form a silent ‘Oh’ and closed again, eyes darting away from you.  
  
It made you suspicious. “Brian?” He looked at you; or rather at your nose, because he wasn’t meeting your eyes. “You are going back to school, right?” Your voice was supposed to sound as though only one answer was acceptable, but the foreboding allowed a tremor to creep into it. You probably sounded like you were pleading. Not that you considered yourself above pleading; no, you really weren’t, not if it would help getting your point across or prompt Brian into moving.  
  
His answer was a shrug and he chewed on his lower lip, the lighting in your room painting deep shadows of his lashes onto his cheeks, making his features seem harder than you knew they were. At least you hoped that it was just the lighting.  
  
“Okay, let me rephrase,” you said when you realized he wasn’t going to answer with words. “Tomorrow morning, when I walk into the school, or when I enter the classroom, or go for lunch in the cafeteria – will you be there?”  
  
“We could have lunch off-campus,” he suggested evasively.  
  
“This is not what I asked and you know it.” Your voice might have risen a few octaves. The surprise and sheer stupidity of Brian’s decision making it so very difficult to keep your emotions in check and your brain to continue function rationally.  
  
“I don’t wanna fight with you,” Brian quietly said with his eyes firmly trained on the floor at his feet. The vulnerability in his voice stood in stark contrast to the hard-jawed expression on his face; or as much as you could see of it.  
  
“Are we fighting?” you replied back, truly wondering.  
  
Brian raised his head at the question. You could see that he didn’t want to talk, but you’d been quiet for so long, hiding behind empty words that you both chose carefully to avoid all of the potentially difficult topics. “I just want to go see a movie,” he tried desperately.  
  
“I want you to go to college,” you countered.  
  
For some reason it seemed to stir him into a defensive stance. “Is the idea of me not going to college so abhorrent to you? Are you ashamed of me? Ashamed that I won’t be worthy enough for you to continue the relationship?”  
  
For a few moments all you could do was to stare at him incredulously. “Don’t put words in my mouth! I never said that. I never even thought that. You think this is about me? God, Brian, it’s… How can you…” You paused to catch your breath and to collect your thoughts. “I just don’t want you to give all of it up.”  
  
Brian shrugged and shook his head at the same time. “What exactly would I be giving up?”  
  
You really wanted to say ‘us’, but not for the reason that Brian seemed to believe. You weren’t ashamed. You would never be anything but proud to be with him. In spite of acting all cocky and superior, most of the time Brian didn’t really see how incredible he truly was. You would have happily spent the rest of your life reminding him daily of all the things that made him exceptional in your eyes. But what you said was, “Eighteen years of education. An almost perfect GPA. A possible future. And, what’s most important, your dreams.” You never wanted to see him broken, but you feared that losing his dreams would accomplish exactly that.  
  
Of course Brian picked the least complicated thing from your speech to comment on. “The only reason I even got good grades was because I was on the team. Athletes get good grades. Everyone knows that. They are always privileged. Teachers were instructed to give us good grades so we could remain on the team.”  
  
You knew just as well as he did that he was wrong. If it was true, the most Brian would have gotten out of the questionable practice of ‘adjusting’ substandard academic performances, would have been a ‘B’ at best. But the worst you’d ever seen him get was an A minus. But whether he was going to college or wasn’t, really wasn’t the point. He had so much potential and you hurt for him knowing that he was throwing it away so carelessly. All other people had ever seen in him or acknowledged in him was his talent on the soccer field, but you knew that his athletic abilities were merely the top of the iceberg of things that he was capable of. He’d done even better on his SATs than you and you’d scored pretty high already. The saddest thing was that he himself didn’t believe he was worth much aside from how many goals he could score during a 90 minutes match.  
  
You didn’t say anything because it seemed that, today, Brian was very intent on deflecting every argument you could have brought forth. You knew him enough to know that you’d accomplish nothing if you tried to keep talking at him. He’d simply shut down more and you’d grow frustrated and things would spiral downwards until either one of you snapped.  
  
The silence hang between you till it grew too oppressive and Brian broke it, “Let’s go see a movie?”  
  
“I don’t feel like it anymore,” you answered. You might have given up on talking for tonight, but you wouldn’t go out and pretend that everything was peachy, when, in fact, it seemed like the tentative peace you’d managed to regain since Christmas was in dire peril. The time you had spent apart before the holiday season had made you uncertain. Before, you felt like you could let every single thing on your mind tumble from your mouth and Brian wouldn’t run or think you retarded or look at you like you came from a different planet. You didn’t feel like it anymore. Now you had to tread carefully, watch your steps and measure your voice. Being with Brian used to be easy; now it felt like you couldn’t let your guard down. It was starting to be exhausting.  
  
Brian nodded once at your decision and you watched him as he left your room, opting to climb out through the window rather than going downstairs and risk running into your mother with whom he’d have to have a civil conversation. Before his back disappeared from view, you called after him. “Will I see you tomorrow?”  
  
Because no matter how different your views on the situation were, the fear that he could be gone and you’d be forced to go days, or even weeks, without seeing him, was too great. It was also a peace offering of sorts. Not the kind that let him know that you were okay with his decision, but enough to assure him that it wasn’t something you two would break over. You even tried for a tentative smile.  
  
He turned, gripping the window ledge for support as his body was already lowered onto the metal trellis that ran along the outer wall of the condo. He held your gaze for a moment, and in those few seconds you managed to convince yourself that his answer would be ‘no’, that if he left now, you’d never see him again. Something in your gut coiled uncomfortably. It made you hold your breath.  
  
You smiled, relieved, when he nodded once and offered, “Pick you up after school, in the parking lot?”  
  
“Okay,” you breathed. He was gone a second later.  
  


  
**

  
  
You fell into a new kind of routine the following week. He’d made it a habit to pick you up after the last period. He would usually loiter around the gym exit or wait for you in the parking lot. Sometimes, when it was particularly cold outside, you’d leave your keys in the car, hidden in an uninspired and predictable place under the floor mat behind the driver’s seat, so he could get inside and have the heater running. You were never concerned about leaving your car unlocked. It was old and beaten and of indefinable color, though you imagined it must have been black once upon a time. Additionally, weeks ago someone left you an early Christmas present and immortalized himself on your car. Now it had the word ‘faggot’ written in neon pink across the side of it and you were fairly certain no one in their right mind would ever bother to steal a car like that. Your mother had offered to pay for a new paint job, but you refused. Not because of the money it would cost. You kinda liked the ‘in your face’ feeling when driving the streets of downtown Pittsburgh and shocking upright and uptight moral citizens with your indignity of a vehicle.  
  
You had no idea where or how he spent his days; the hours of it when you were in school. You sat in classes, barely concentrating on the teachers, instead wondering what Brian was doing. Sometimes he strolled the city - your mother had seen him around and asked you why he weren’t in school. You’d just looked at her, offering no answer, and she didn’t ask further. You didn’t know how to interpret her silence, but you didn’t care enough to ask. Sometimes Brian told you that he’d spent the entire day in a booth at the diner where he hung out even on the days when he wasn’t working. A few times, when you met in the evening or afternoon, he’d offered you pot. You didn’t know where he was getting it from and you didn’t care for the fact that he was getting it. You cared that he was just drifting aimlessly.  
  
You brought up the topic of college and emancipation regularly and each time Brian shot you down, shut himself off so completely, there was no way of reaching him. Perversely, it was exactly the fact of him shutting down that made you continue to bring it up, because you knew he did it to protect himself. And as long as he did that, you knew it meant that, on some level, he still cared for the outcome.  
  
Your concerns grew the longer he stayed away from school. Since it was your last semester, time was quickly running away. He had missed a lot of classes, but he could have explained his situation and easily made up the work he’d missed. No matter how often you offered your help, he didn’t want it and the way in which he brushed you off - like you had no say in the matter, because it was his life and you weren’t part of it - made you angry. So fucking angry, you sometimes pictured wringing his neck, shaking him until he came to his senses. And with the anger came the guilt.  
  
Most of the time, your anger at him felt justified. But later, when the rage evaporated and made room for bleak frustration, the guilt would take over. Because it seemed so very wrong to be angry at him when it was through no fault of his that he found himself in this situation. You scolded yourself for being a bad boyfriend. You just couldn’t bear to see him so lost. And then you wondered... Had Brian known of the consequences, would he still have come out in school when he did? Things would, undoubtedly, be better for all concerned parties, if he’d stayed in the closet at least until his graduation. And you couldn’t help but feel the horror of that possibility. Because no matter how much pity you felt for him, how much anger, you were still selfish enough to be grateful for the fact that his coming out brought you two together. You couldn’t realistically believe that you two would have happened had the confrontation with Mitch not taken place when and where it did.  
  
The thought made you feel even worse. And even more determined to help him right what went wrong.  
  
It was weird; you never considered yourself a believer before. Mostly, because you never paused long enough to consider your stance on the topic at all. But it seemed as though meeting Bran had instilled an almost religious faith in you that your meeting hadn’t been a coincidence. It felt too loaded for that. Aside from the hormonal uproar and the fluttering in your stomach you always experienced when near Brian, there was also the feeling of rightness; like you were exactly where you were meant to be.  
  
Somehow though in the process, Brian had lost his footing and you couldn’t help but feel that it was... well, maybe not your fault, but you were part of the reason and as long as Brian was not happy, you’d never be happy either. Your own happiness was connected to Brian’s and you wondered if Brian felt the same. The answer you gave yourself to this question changed with the time of day; or, to be perfectly honest, it changed with Brian’s moods or rather with the effect they had on your feelings of security when it came to the relationship you shared.  
  
The regular bouts of doubt were slowly eating away at you. Eventually you realized that you had nothing to lose. That he cut you out hurt. That he suffered hurt, too. There seemed to be no way around the pain no matter how you looked at it. You needed to gather all your courage and address the issue again, for what you hoped would be the final time. It took a while though. January was almost over when you threw caution to the wind and took a stand. It was going to be all or nothing. You picked an evening and even prepared a speech.  
  
“How can you act as though you don’t care?” The words exploded from your mouth unexpectedly, over shared pizza that you ate sitting on the floor in your room, in the middle of a talk where you’d been discussing whether you should take your car with you when you went off to college. You hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. The plan was to finish dinner and gently ease into the topic. Brian looked at you, stunned speechless, and you took a few calming breaths, starting anew.  
  
“I know how shitty it sounds, coming from me. Because I don’t have to work so hard for college. I don’t have to do anything but show up on time. I know that I’ve no right to judge. But why aren’t you fighting this? I know you want to go to college. And how are you planning on getting there if you let yourself go like this?” you began again one of those evenings. You saw the fight on his face; he wanted so much to turn around and leave right then, but, after the last time, he’d promised you that he wouldn’t do that anymore and he stayed. He refused to talk about it though and you realized that this was not the tactic to success. “We made plans together,” you reminded him. “And I don’t know how you can throw them all away so easily.” Diplomacy didn’t work. Now you tried challenging and enraging him.  
  
He put down the slice of pizza he was eating and wiped his hands on a napkin. “Sunshine...” It was a pleading, as though he saw right through your plan. But you weren’t even sure it was merely a plan at all. You actually wanted an answer because how would something like ‘the two of you’ continue to exist if he was giving himself up? Was the way you were headed towards diverging into two different roads? Would your relationship end when school did? The notion of it was just so ridiculously absurd, it made your muscles convulse and your insides freeze. And, besides, what was he pleading for? For you to stop? You couldn’t do that. And you didn’t feel particularly sunshiny today.  
  
“Answer me,” you demanded.  
  
“Maybe I’ve decided I won’t go to college,” Brian replied, and it wasn’t the question you wanted the answer to the most, but you knew that he’d chosen it because it was comparatively safe to answer.  
  
It was the first time he’d spoken it out loud and even though the idea horrified you, you thought you heard anger below the threshold of his actual words. And it made you believe that he wasn’t as okay with the idea as he wanted to make you believe. You took it for a good sign that all was not lost yet.  
  
“Is that what you want?” you asked him plainly.  
  
“Nobody cares what I want,” he exclaimed and pulled his hair, in frustration maybe, or resentment.  
  
“I care,” you answered quietly. “I know you want to leave this city. I know you want to become the greatest fucking success story this shitty town has ever seen. I know you want to be your own boss. And you will. You can do and be and become of all of that. And more. This right now is nothing but a bothersome stone in your path. Nothing more. Why are you making it into something bigger than it is? You’re smart enough to figure something out and you just… don’t. You sit back and let those assholes dictate what is going to become of you.” And you’re throwing away a chance of us being together. Of us leaving this place together. But you didn’t add that part. You were embarrassed enough about your verbal blow-up as it was. You’d proved enough for one evening how selfish you could be.  
  
Or maybe you did say that last part, because Brian suddenly looked up at you, fixing you with an intense stare and said, “I can still go with you, wherever you decide to go for college.” You still hadn’t made the decision where you would go. Brian thought it was because you were still waiting for a reply from the Rhode Island School, but what he didn’t know was that you waited for him to come around. “I can work there.” Brian continued. “Do anything. We can still be together. What the fucking difference does it make?”  
  
You were equal parts relieved and frustrated. Relieved because for the first time since Christmas Brian had opened up to you again; admitted that he still wanted to be with you - something you’d begun to doubt more and more lately. You’d missed this Brian, the one who let you in on his thoughts and wasn’t afraid of sharing them with you. And you were frustrated because you didn’t just want to be with Brian, though of course that was a prerequisite for your own happiness; you wanted him to be able to live his dreams instead of giving them up.  
  
“It makes a difference,” you replied, “because you don’t want that. You don’t want to ‘just work’ something. You could do that here as well. You love to learn new things. I’ve never seen someone more dedicated to his studies; except maybe Daphne and that’s saying something, because, believe you me, she’s a dork for school if there ever lived one. You want college.” And you’d grow to resent me because it was handed to me on a platter while you didn’t have it at all, you silently added.  
  
“Brian,” you tried one last time, putting all of your emotions into what you had no idea you were about to say, your prepared speech completely forgotten, “if it truly was your decision to leave high school, forget about college, and instead working the night shift in a steel mill or wherever - if I truly believed that you’d be, well, maybe not happy but at least fine with it, I’d support you in your decision. I’d stand behind you one hundred percent. But it isn’t your decision. It’s theirs. They forced this situation on you and by not fighting them or doing your damnedest to find another way to get where you want to go, you’re allowing them to win. Show them how wrong they are. Show them how much better than them you are. Because you are, Brian, I know you are.” The last words were whispered in a pleading, imploring tone.  
  
He looked at you then, really looked at you instead of just putting up a front with a neutral expression. And you could see a brief flicker behind his eyes - for a moment they’d gone soft and the corner of his mouth pulled up very slightly in an almost smile. You hoped he wasn’t laughing at you for believing in him, but he didn’t look like he was mocking you. He just gazed, and his face seemed calm again. You dared to smile and relaxed when the smile was returned. When you extended your arm, palm turned upwards and open, he placed your hand in yours and you felt like a heavy load was taken off of your mind.  
  
After a moment in which you just smiled and looked at each other, you broke the silence. “One day,” you finished your thought in a dreamy voice, “you’re going to be handed your diploma and we’ll go out to celebrate the achievement and Mitch Peratto will be there in the restaurant that we choose to celebrate at, reading us the specials from the menu and waiting on us.”  
  
Brian laughed at that. He started coming to school again the next day.


	18. "You would have loved to live in a movie."

**> March 2009<**  
  
You would have loved to live in a movie. Or a fairytale. Or any other kind of a fictional story that ended with the famous ‘and they lived happily ever after’. But this was your life and it had never followed a rom-com script, though in the next few weeks it was easy to pretend that, for once, it would. You spent blissfully ignorant months, watching the snow melt and make room for a new sun that, through the eyes of a head over heels in love teenager seemed so luminous, like it could magically gloss over every irregularity. Later, you’d hate yourself for allowing to be lulled into a false sense of peace. You wanted so much to believe that everything would turn out alright. Maybe that’s why you missed the signs. Or maybe there weren’t any. You only knew that, for a while, everything seemed okay again.  
  
Each morning you met Brian on the corner of your street. You’d pick him up and drive the rest of the way to school, talking about everything and nothing, mostly making plans for the afternoon. Sometimes Brian wasn’t waiting for you at said corner. First time that happened you got scared, wondered if he was starting to skip school again. But he’d been waiting for you on the bleachers because he’d left his house earlier than usual. It didn’t happen often, but when he had to leave his home early, you would always find him waiting for you in your spot behind the bleachers or the tool shed. And no matter how regularly it occurred, each morning you didn’t see him waiting at the corner, your pulse picked up though you kept telling yourself that you’d meet him on school grounds instead. Still, your heartbeat didn’t slow down until you actually spotted him there.  
  
A few months passed in which things were good. Brian had gotten an after school job that paid more than bussing tables at the diner and though it cut into your time with him, you were happy that he seemed to have a more positive outlook on live again. He was working at the movie theater now, doing all kinds of floor crew jobs from concessions and selling tickets to ushering. And he’d already lined up a few job interviews for a full-time position for after you graduated. He thought if he could work full-time for a year, he’d maybe save up enough money to go to college. This way he’d only be losing one year. One year in which you’d be living in different cities, in different states, but always with the knowledge that it was only temporary. One year was doable, right?  
  
With spring break coming up in a few days, it was easy to forget everything that bothered you. Especially when the entire school buzzed with activity, planning the upcoming prom. On your way to the cafeteria, you passed the table behind which members of the prom committee were selling tickets. Michael was one of the people standing in line to buy one. You wouldn’t have thought much of it, but when you passed the line, Brian stopped and stared at him in disbelief.  
  
You knew they were friends. And you’d spoken to Michael a few times when you three were having lunch together. But you didn’t have too many things in common. Michael was a shy guy who liked to hide behind his comics and didn’t talk about much aside from which super hero did what in the most recent issue. Brian and Michael hadn’t been friends for long, but Brian seemed to like him okay, though ever since he got involved with you, he didn’t spend much time with Michael anymore. Sometimes you thought Michael harbored a serious dislike for you because of that; other times you wondered if he even noticed or cared, he was so engrossed in his fictional stories. Actually, you weren’t even sure Michael knew that you and Brian were... whatever the hell it was that you were. He had a crush on Brian, of course – everybody and their deaf and blind uncles could see that. Or maybe it was more like a hero worship. If he could, he’d probably create a comic book with Brian as the super hero. The geeky part of you – the one that you kept well hidden away from Brian most of the time – even conjured up images on occasion, ideas about how Super-Brian would look like, what his costume and superpower would be.  
  
While you were hanging onto your thoughts, Michael had noticed Brian staring, flushed an embarrassed beet-red and tried to look everywhere but at Brian.  
  
“You’re going to the prom?” Brian asked in utter disbelief.  
  
“Yeah,” Michael mumbled.  
  
“Why?” More disbelief.  
  
Michael stalled and tried to avoid answering, but eventually, he stuttered, “My ma is making me. Said it’s some kind of rite of passage thing and that I’d regret it if I didn’t go.”  
  
You sort of felt sorry for him. Not that your mom wasn’t pressuring you into going, but she understood that you didn’t feel remotely connected to the school and, in the end, you knew she’d leave the decision up to you. And your decision was, ‘No way in hell!’ Besides, Daphne was nowhere near as eager to go anymore, after you turned her down about her first time being with you, and, aside from Brian, you didn’t have friends at Northgate High. You didn’t even know the first name of your lab partner. So it wasn’t like you had a date to the prom. And the only thing that you thought was even worse than going to the prom was going to the prom without a date. Speaking of which…  
  
“Whom are you taking?” you asked Michael as the line moved forward and it was his turn to buy tickets. He’d requested two.  
  
“Marcia Kauffman.”  
  
“Who’s that?” Brian asked as he watched Michael fumble with the money in his wallet.  
  
“She was the only other person who joined my Comic Book Club,” Michael answered and as you watched Brian’s reaction, you thought he cringed a tiny bit. No doubt Michael had asked Brian to join too. No doubt Brian had declined.  
  
“Who are  _you_  going to the prom with, Brian?” a voice behind you butted into your conversation. You turned halfway to look at the girl who had spoken. She looked kinda familiar. The cheerleader uniform told you that, at least before he was shunned, she’d probably had a big crush on Brian. You wondered if it was ever returned. Probably. Brian did tell you that he used to fuck girls a lot. And she was pretty - blond and cute and with that air of superiority around her that told you that she came from a well-off family.  
  
“Lindsay, you know very well that the only girl I would take to the prom would be you,” Brian flirted and you suddenly feared your breakfast would make a reappearance. “But I heard you’re already going with Parker,” Brian continued. She blushed prettily and played with a lock of her hair. It was enough to cue you in to the fact that she still had the hots for Brian. You wished you were somewhere else; somewhere where you could wind your arm around Brian and show her in no uncertain terms that he was yours now. But this was the school at its busiest hour, students rushing in and out of the lunch room. So you swallowed down the bile in your throat and put a falsely polite smile on your face and jammed your hands into your pockets. You might have wrung anyone’s neck otherwise.  
  
Michael meanwhile was watching Brian and Lindsay’s talk with wide, interested eyes. He was completely bedazzled to find himself standing in a group of four, a cheerleader and a former soccer star among them. He’d probably never been part of a more popular company. Okay, so even in your current state you realized how vile that thought sounded, but you couldn’t help yourself - jealousy apparently wasn’t bringing forth the nicest side of you.  
  
Lindsay whispered something to her friend, another girl in a cheerleader uniform, and they exchanged something under the table that you couldn’t see. Then she got up and, taking Brian by his elbow - another wave of nausea hitting you at the touch -, led the three of you a short distance away from the sales table.  
  
“You could take Justin,” Lindsay suggested when you were a safe distance away from straining ears and curious eyes.  
  
You thought your stomach, the very same that was threatening to come out of your throat only moments ago, had now dropped somewhere below your waistline. You didn’t even know why you were so shocked. Everyone who knew you knew you were gay - they called that, and many variations of it, to your face often enough. They had even started calling Brian names ever since he had outed himself in the halls and started hanging out with you a lot. But those were all for name-calling reasons. Never had anyone walked up to you and mentioned it almost casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.  
  
Brian was staring at Lindsay with narrowed eyes, probably trying to gauge whether it was an elaborate attempt at a prank. But her face was calm and she was smiling friendly. Your eyes caught sight of Michael and you had your answer whether he’d known that you and Brian were an item or not. His eyes were bulging and the eyebrows almost touched his hairline. He looked almost comical; only, nothing about this situation was funny right at that moment. Michael’s head turned left and right, eyes darting back and forth between you and Brian. Lindsay was oblivious to it all. Her eyes were fixed on Brian only.  
  
“Don’t say no, Brian. At least not if the only reason is that you think it would be easier if you didn’t come. Only say no when you really don’t want to be there. Seriously - what do you have to lose?”  
  
It was actually a very good question. And when you allowed yourself to think it, your mind was flooded by images you were powerless against. Whenever you thought about prom before that, you pictured yourself and a girl – probably one that you didn’t even like much. In the more pleasant phantasies, though they were still horrific enough to turn you off of the idea, you’d gone with Daphne. But what you saw now in front of your inner eye didn’t compare at all. You imagined yourself  _and Brian_  walking into the ballroom, holding hands, maybe even with your arms around each other’s waists, all eyes on you because the two of you together, in formal wear, would be looking dashing. You saw Brian in a black tux, white shirt... on second thought, maybe he’d go with a burgundy shirt, and maybe a white scarf for accessory. Your shirt would be white, classic cut. You’d be dancing together, looking beautiful, stealing the show and being the center of attention. You could imagine liking that.  
  
You hadn’t realized Brian was watching you until he fixed you with a steady gaze and asked, “Do you want to go?”  
  
“I don’t care,” you answered. It was a flat out lie. You did care; you just didn’t know for which option you cared more.  
  
“Try again, with more conviction this time,” Brian said and smirked.  
  
“I haven’t thought about it before,” you replied weakly. Now that the thought was there, so was the desire. Or at least the first buds of something that strongly resembled desire.  
  
“Well, why don’t you think about it now?” Lindsay interjected and let two tickets slip into Brian’s palm. She smiled briefly at you again, winked, and disappeared, leaving you, Brian and Michael alone. Michael excused himself immediately after. He looked kind of shaken and he avoided eye contact when he said his goodbyes. Brian distractedly mumbled something barely intelligible in reply, his eyes still holding yours.  
  
“Well?” he prompted.  
  
You thought hard and serious for a few moments. Eventually your lips curled into a slow smile. “It would be a great farewell fuck you to Northgate High if we did show up there together, wouldn’t it?”  
  
Brian’s eyes lit up with mischief. “It would cause a riot,” he agreed. “Wouldn’t want to miss out on it.”  
  
“So, we’re going?” you asked.  
  
“Looks like it, Sunshine.”  
  
You smiled. You didn’t even protest when he slung his arm around your shoulders. It was mostly a comradely gesture, though you knew that whoever saw you two wouldn’t interpret it as such. Right now, you couldn’t have been bothered. Not when life was good and Brian had just committed to something you hadn’t even dreamed of.


	19. "You can't go home."

**> May 2009<**  
  
You were actually looking forward to the prom. Had anyone told you before that one day you would, you’d have laughed in their faces. And you knew exactly what it was that had changed your opinion. You still thought it was a stupid, breeder tradition, and you certainly didn’t feel connected to the school spirit or any of your classmates. You’d never danced outside of your room or shower, so it wasn’t like you were looking forward to that. Besides, you were pretty sure nobody at the prom would tolerate you and Brian dancing together. Actually, you weren’t even sure if Brian would want to dance with you in front of all those people who looked at him with hate in their eyes when, only months ago, they were carrying him on their shoulders and almost worshipping the ground he walked on.  
  
What you were looking for was spending one evening with Brian, all dressed up and gorgeous looking. Okay, so, aside from the dressing up part, you were spending a lot of your evenings with Brian. But it was usually in your living room, watching old movies, sometimes joined by your mother who pretended to look away when you felt the impulse to lock lips with Brian. She knew that sometimes he spent the night, but she also knew that she could trust you. You told her once, shortly after she met Brian for the first time, that you weren’t ready for anything beyond second base, and it hadn’t changed yet. Besides, you would never be able to go further with your mother across the hall. You just enjoyed having Brian close and knowing him safe.  
  
It was a different thing though going to the prom together. You still hadn’t found a term to label the relationship you had with Brian, but even you realized that showing up at the dance hand in hand with him was a statement. A statement that you belonged together; and to each other. And one thing was for sure: You  _were_  going to walk in there hand in hand. Nobody, no matter what they might think of you otherwise, was going to take  _that_  away from you.  
  
Your mother had already pressed the shirt and hung it on the door of your closet, beside the suit that dangled from a clothes hanger under a protective plastic cover. She had tears in her eyes when she’d done it and you’d felt kind of guilty. She was so proud of her son graduating high school and going to college. And you hadn’t even told her that you didn’t get into the Rhode Island School of Art. You were too ashamed. You felt like a failure. It was the only thing, aside from Brian, that you’d ever really wanted, more than anything else. Your mother had divorced your dad so you could live your life the way you wanted it to and you’d failed at the first attempt at it. Ironically, you did get into Dartmouth. If your dad was still conscious and not in a vegetative state, he’d probably laugh at you. You didn’t find it funny in the least.  
  
Of course you had applied to other colleges, but they weren’t art schools. You applied because those were the schools that had offered Brian a scholarship. Now, there was no sense whatsoever of going there. Their art programs, while existent, were nothing really spectacular and without Brian there, they lost their only real attraction to you. Basically, this left you with only one choice of college. You were still pondering how best to tell your mother that you were going to Dartmouth instead of an art school, when you heard a soft rapping on your window. Startled, you pushed it open and gasped in horror.  
  
You’d seen Brian beaten, bloody, littered with bruises; you’d seen him with broken skin, cracked ribs, sore knuckles. You’d seen him limp, wince, gasp in pain. You’d never seen this.  
  
You wanted to pull him into his arms, wanted to help him inside, but you didn’t know where to touch. Every bit of him looked broken, swollen, or cracked.  
  
You couldn’t even control your face and it probably showed the absolute horror that was etched into your very soul. Your eyes filled with tears and your heart filled with rage.  
  
You didn’t ask what happened. You stepped aside so he could climb in and waited till he sat down on the chair you’d just vacated while you gingerly took place on the edge of your bed.  
  
“It was my fault this time,” he said. His voice sounded different. Maybe it was the strain from the pain; or from the inability to move his jaw and lips properly. Maybe it was something else entirely. You wanted to scream at him that it was never his fault, but you’d lost your voice. “I picked a fight,” he explained.  
  
“Why?” The question came out in a whisper.  
  
For the longest time, there was silence.  
  
“He threw me out,” Brian eventually said. It wasn’t an answer to your question, but how would an answer make what happened any better?  
  
“You can stay here,” you immediately offered. “There’s only four weeks left until graduation.”  
  
More silence in which you took stock of his injuries and went over the routine of how to take care of the cuts and the wounds and the bruises. You had everything you needed - disinfectant, bandages, ointment, painkiller- in your desk drawer.  _That_  was the scariest thing of all.  
  
“I’m not going to graduate,” he disclosed. “They’re not letting me. Missed too much classes, haven’t earned enough credits to graduate.” He paused while you digested. “Shoulda seen my dad when I told him that I wouldn’t have gone to work at the factory with him, no matter if I graduated or not. Was kinda worth it.” He even attempted to smile, but cringed in pain and gave up on the attempt.  
  
Your brain shut down, there were too many things wrong with what he’d said. “You should get cleaned up,” you said instead, needing to focus on something else for the moment, for fear of losing your mind. You fetched a large bath towel from the cabinet in the hall. “Gimme your clothes,” you ordered and he obediently started to remove them. They were soiled and had blood stains on them, some of them had already started to dry. “I’ll put them in the machine while you shower.” He took the hint and disappeared behind the bathroom door.  
  
When you heard the water start, you pondered for a minute whether to let lose your tears now. But you couldn’t be sure that you’d be able to stop before he was done showering, so you pulled yourself together and went downstairs after dumping his clothes into the washing machine.  
  
“Mom?”  
  
She was watching a show on TV; an old sitcom. You remembered you used to watch it together when you were younger. Why didn’t you do these things anymore?  
  
“Yes, honey?” she replied distractedly.  
  
“Brian is going to spend the night here,” you told her in an even tone. At least you thought it was even, but she perked up nevertheless.  
  
She turned half-way, leaning over the backrest. “Is he okay?” You didn’t know how much she knew. She sometimes saw a cut or a black eye. But that was when the worst of it was almost over already. She must have thought her part of it, but she never said anything or asked you and you were grateful for it.  
  
“He will be,” you answered and went back to your room. You hoped you were right.  
  
You’d chosen a quick cycle and the machine was done washing his clothes before Brian reappeared. You’d already started the dryer when Brian finally came out of the bathroom. He had wrapped himself in the large towel, but you could still see enough of his body for the sight to make your blood freeze. No word was spoken as you methodically went about taking care of the injuries. You swore a silent oath that this was the last time you were going to dress his wounds. He was never going to get hurt like this again. You didn’t care what you had to do to protect him from it. You’d do anything. Fucking  _anything_.  
  
“What are you going to do?” you asked quietly, marveling at your voice when it didn’t shake with the rage you felt as you applied a butterfly strip to his split brow. You were better equipped now in the first aid kit department.  
  
“Don’t know. Gonna figure something out,” he replied.  
  
“There’s summer school,” you suggested carefully.  
  
“Yeah,” he agreed, but you knew he was only doing it to placate you. You didn’t press the point. “Are my clothes done?” he asked when you were ready.  
  
“They should be in a couple of minutes,” you replied, confused. “Why? I thought we’d be going to bed now.”  
  
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m gonna head out.”  
  
“Brian, you can’t go home,” you exclaimed.  
  
“I’m not going home.”  
  
“Where are you going then?”  
  
“Don’t know. Just gotta think.”  
  
He didn’t say more, so you left the room and returned with his dry clothes a few moments later. They were still warm from the dryer. You inhaled the scent, but they didn’t smell like him anymore.  
  
“Let me get my car keys...” you began while watching him get dressed, but he shook his head and you fell silent.  
  
“I wanna be alone for a while. Okay?” He looked you squarely in the eyes and even though he was standing right next to you, he was miles away. He was slipping away from you again. Just like that time when they kicked him off the soccer team. You wondered if he’d come back to you.  
  
You nodded sadly.  
  
“See you tomorrow, Sunshine.”  
  
He was about to climb back out the window when you called him back. “Wait!” He turned around and looked questioningly at you. “Take my car,” you offered. “You can give it back to me tomorrow.”  
  
Searching the pockets of your pants and jacket, you pulled out the keys and held them out to him. You did want him to have the car tonight. Maybe he’d change his mind halfway down the block and come back. And if not, he’d still have a place where to sleep. And, a tiny voice in your head whispered that, this way, you’d make sure he would come back tomorrow. You didn’t want to be this manipulative, but you couldn’t be bothered to care right now. He had to come back. He just had to.  
  
Before he disappeared completely, his vision strayed to the tux hanging on your closet door. A small, doleful smile ghosted over his lips. He was gone a second later.  
  
Prom night was less than 24 hours away. But it felt like a different world to you now. In a matter of barely an hour, your whole world had changed. It felt like you were inhabiting a parallel universe, a mirror world where you could look out and see the things that ‘normal’ people did, but they were inaccessible to you. There were other things now that mattered more. And there would never be a senior prom to tell your best friend Daphne about.


	20. "Insanity. But of the good kind."

**> May 2009<**  
  
You weren’t really surprised when he didn’t show up for class the next day. It was after the period before lunch when you saw him again. You were just coming out of the American History classroom, thoughts miles away from school, when you saw him. He was leaning casually against the wall across the floor. He was looking bad, face a myriad of blue, red and green colors. But he was smiling, if only lopsidedly, and his eyes were soft again. He seemed strangely calm, calmer than you’ve seen him in a long while. For some reason, it made you suspicious and tense.  
  
People stopped and looked at him. They whispered and pointed, not very stealthily if you said so yourself. But you didn’t care. He motioned with his head towards the exit and you nodded once, in agreement. When you joined him at his side, he grabbed your hand and you walked out to the parking lot like that, other students making room for you as you passed through. They saw your tightly clasped hands and you noticed their eyes bulge; some sneered and made faces, others just stared open-mouthed. Whenever a whisper or a vile word reached your ears, Brian’s thumb would graze gently over your knuckles as if to remind you that they didn’t matter – you did. It worked; you only had eyes for him.  
  
Once outside, he led you to your parked car and, pulling the keys out of his jeans pocket, returned them to you. There was a new kind of energy around him – still calm, but at the same time pulsing with an optimism you hadn’t seen from him before. It thrummed through his veins and infected you.  
  
“I’ve had time to think,” he began. You almost dared to smile, he sounded so excited. He grabbed your hand again, the one he’d let go of when he gave you back your keys. Then he took a look around, making sure you were alone in the lot.  
  
“Go away with me,” he said.  
  
“What?” You brain scrambled to catch up.  
  
“I’m leaving here. Today. Fuck this school and fuck this city. I’m going. And I want you to come with. Come with me,” he implored again.  
  
“You’re crazy.” He  _was_  crazy.  
  
“Do you care?”  
  
Did you? A hundred voices inside your head screamed all at once. They were pulling you in hundreds of different directions at the same time. They were telling you what to do, what to think and how to react. They were yelling things like wrong, and Mom, and future, and prom, and graduation, and regret, and mistake. But another voice that wasn’t yelling but speaking gently and quietly and, strangely, in Brian’s soft baritone. It said that those were all technicalities. Maybe it was wrong; maybe you would live to regret it. But there was one thing that you knew for sure; one thing that wasn’t a maybe but a certainty: You’d rather regret things you did than those you were afraid to risk. Besides, what did you have to lose? You never wanted to go to Dartmouth anyway. And you knew that every version of life that didn’t include Brian was one you weren’t interested in living.  
  
You remembered all of the pep talks you’ve ever given him; lectures through which you tried to convince him to go back to school; the many times you reminded him of his college plans. Bus as he stood before you now, completely wild, crazy, erratic, but at the same time strangely collected and centered in himself, confident in his decision… You understood something that you thought he’d learned before you: Sometimes, no matter how many stigmas the world might pin onto the concept, giving up was not simply the easy out, not the choice of the weak. It was about choosing a less travelled path, and because of that, one that took guts to walk. It wasn’t only the uncertainty and fear of the unknown, it was also about exposing yourself to the lack of understanding from others and maybe even their condescension and ridicule. But you knew one thing for sure – you’d choose to walk this road with Brian any day. And you knew one more thing that calmed and excited you in equal parts: This was not a decision of a teenager who was in love for the first time and acting irrational because of it. Because Brian wasn’t just your first love, or your first boyfriend, it wasn’t even the fact that he was your best friend – even though he was all those things. But he was so much more than that. He was a part of you on so many levels, some of which transcended the realm of the rational. And it was the unwavering trust in that larger-than-life connection you two shared that made you see everything with perfect clarity.  
  
You felt a surge of adrenaline rush through you, stronger than anything you’ve experienced before. You smiled and nodded. “Okay.”  
  
His eyes grew wide, jaw falling slightly open. “Okay?”  
  
Just last night you’d promised to yourself that you would do anything you could to make sure Brian would never get hurt again. Not by his father, not by anyone else. And that included you. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
There was a moment of awkward silence, neither of you knew what to do or say next. So you smiled a little sheepishly and asked, “Do we leave now?”  
  
Brian chuckled. You noticed in that moment that you hadn’t heard him laugh for a long while now. You didn’t realize until now how much you’d missed the sound.  
  
“Don’t you wanna go and pick up some stuff from home first?” he asked you.  
  
“Yeah. Good thinking.” This was crazy. So fucking crazy. Insanity. But of the good kind. You grinned. A thought occured to you that dimmed your smile a little. “What do I tell my mom?”  
  
“Nothing. We’ll call her later. In a few days or so. Let her know we’re okay.”  
  
“Where are we going?” you asked.  
  
“No idea. Can you bring your car?”  
  
“Yes. It’s mine. Insurance is in my name and everything.” You looked back to the school building. You were so not going to miss it. “Let’s go.”  
  
“No,” Brian protested. “I have to stop by my house too. We can meet up later.”  
  
“You won’t run into your dad or something, right? He’s working, right?”  
  
“Probably.” You weren’t convinced and it showed on your face. “I promise I’ll be careful,” he tried to assure you. “I know how to sneak in should he be home.”  
  
“Be careful,” you pleaded. “Please be careful.” You hugged him, mindful of his fresh injuries. If this was wrong, then why did it feel so fucking good? “Where do I meet you?”  
  
“Can you come pick me up at the corner of where we met for our first date?”  
  
“Sure. In an hour?”  
  
“Deal,” Brian replied and leaned in to kiss you. Usually you never did this in public. But what was going to happen now? You threw caution to the wind and pulled him closer as much as you dared to, not wanting to cause him more pain.  
  
“Later, Sunshine,” he breathed against your lips.  
  
“Later,” you replied and grinned.  
  
“I promise you, you won’t regret your decision,” he said, walking away backwards.  
  
You laughed. “I know I won’t.”  
  
“Hey, Sunshine?” he called back before turning.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Love you,” he mouthed.  
  
You stood there, happy and shocked, and watched him walk away until he disappeared behind a corner. Then you got in behind the wheel and drove away in the opposite direction, headed home. Your mom wouldn’t be home yet which would make grabbing a few of your personal things that much easier. You wouldn’t be able to tell her and you wouldn’t be able to say goodbye. You knew she’d be worried sick, but you swore to yourself that you’d call her the first chance you got; after you and Brian reached your destination which was yet unknown. You didn’t want to hurt her; didn’t want to cause her to worry, but you didn’t see any other way and despite these qualms, you never doubted your decision. You inhaled deeply, your nose catching a whiff of Brian’s unique scent. You looked around, eyes falling on the jacket he’d left in the co-driver’s seat. The day was warm today; he probably wouldn’t need it until evening. You felt giddy, like a kid before Christmas, as you parked your car behind your mother’s in your driveway.


	21. "Brian, Brian, Brian Brian BrianBrianbrianbrianbrian"

**> May 2009<**  
  
You were still replaying Brian’s whispered ‘Love you’ in front of your inner eye to register immediately that it wasn’t normal for your mom’s car to be home during the day.  
  
Your world collapsed in on itself the moment you stepped over the threshold of the condo.  
  
“Justin? Oh, god. Who told you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m so glad you’re here.”  
  
She threw her arms around you, almost hurting you with the force of her embrace. Her body shook and she sobbed uncontrollably. You didn’t have to ask what had her so unsettled. You knew - by instinct of the power of deduction - that your father had died. What you didn’t know was why it was shocking her the way it did. He’d been dying for half a year now; she visited him daily - plenty of opportunities to say goodbye. But the thing that threw you most of all was the gaping hole that you suddenly felt in the vicinity of your chest. He hadn’t been your father in over a year; you hadn’t seen him or spoken to him in as long a time. Why you had to fight to keep your tears in check now completely eluded you. Your first instinct was to call Brian and tell him. Brian’s voice alone would have the power to bring order into your thoughts right now. But you couldn’t call him. He wouldn’t be home yet and he didn’t own a cellphone. The realization that you didn’t have access to him whenever you felt like it, slashed through your insides and made them burn with despair and added to the irrational aching loss in your heart. You bit your lips hard, wanting the pain to distract you from this other, inexplicable, one, squeezed your eyes shut, and adjusted the grip you had around your mother, seeking comfort as well as giving it.  
  
Soon, you told yourself. You’d meet Brian soon and everything would be alright again. Well, no, not alright-alright, but better. Everything was always better with Brian close to you. You just had to hold on until then. You could do it. Just hold on and keep together until you could wrap yourself up in Brian’s arms and then you’d be able to fall apart, knowing that he’d be holding you together. You could do it.  
  
Your mother’s shake voice distracted you from the mental pep talk you were giving yourself. “I had just arrived at the house I’m supposed to show this afternoon. I’d gone in to see your dad earlier in the morning. Everything was fine. And a few hours later, this nurse is calling me on my cell, telling me… saying…” Your mom sobbed and gulped lungfuls of air before she was able to continue. “They say he caught a pneumonia a few days ago and the antibiotics weren’t working and he was getting weaker. They’d told me about the pneumonia, of course. But they didn’t say that it was this serious. I didn’t know!”  
  
You let her sob and wallow in self-reproach, not knowing what you could offer her to make her feel better. You hadn’t known any of it. Per your unspoken agreement, your mother didn’t talk about your father to you. You hadn’t wanted to know. Now you blamed yourself. For not asking, for leaving her all alone to deal with it on her own, for not being a better son – not to him, but to her.  
  
“I need to call Carol,” your mother suddenly changed the topic. “She has to cover the appointment in an hour. I’m going to call her right now,” she said, mostly talking to herself.  
  
You let her go, watched as she brought up and dialed the number on her cell. She needed something to focus on right now and, frankly, you needed a moment to breathe. If only you could remember how to. No matter how deep you breathed, the air just didn’t seem to reach your lungs. You tried to gulp around the lump in your throat, but you ended up sounding like an asthmatic. The need to wrap your arms around Brian was so overwhelming, it was drowning out almost every other conscious thought. It was only superseded by your guilt; guilt that you needed and  _wanted_  him more right now than you needed or wanted your mother. Your need for Brian was bigger than even your grief for your own father. Though, if you had the insight back then to take a step back and assess the situation with an objective eye, you’d have realized that your need for Brian was only this big because it grew in proportion to the pain at your father’s death that you didn’t want to acknowledge yet.  
  
Your lungs stung from the lack of oxygen. In the back of your mind, so far back that it didn’t connect to your consciousness, you realized you were having something akin to a panic attack, but you didn’t know how to deal with it. Your mother’s palm on your cheek brought you back into reality, her thumb wiping away the moistness on your face. That’s when you realized the stinging in your eyes wasn’t from lack of oxygen at all.  
  
She smiled softly at you, kissed your forehead and said, “Let me grab the papers from the den. The hospital is probably going to need them.”  
  
She seemed collected again, in control of her emotions, so you let her go while you remained behind, standing in the middle of the room like a statue, not knowing what to do. The room, the furniture, the paintings on the wall, even the photographs in their frames, all looked alien to you, as if you were seeing them for the first time. You caught sight of yourself on the mirror that hung opposite the main door – you didn’t recognize yourself. Your eyes were blood-shot, your hands trembled, and there was a bleakness to your posture that reminded you of a much older person. You couldn’t stop looking at your reflection and the longer you did, the more detached from yourself and this world you felt. Your only connection to reality was a name that you kept repeating in your head like a new mantra:  _Brian, Brian, Brian Brian BrianBrianbrianbrianbrian_  until all you could see reflected in the mirror was him. It set your limbs into motion. After a few minutes that felt like an eternity, your mother still hadn’t returned and you went to check up on her, to see what was taking her so long.  
  
Your feet carried you as if on autopilot, your thoughts always a step behind on your actions. You sort of welcomed the numbness. It made you feel like under water, making it hard to breathe, which was weird. But it also made the pain in your chest hurt less which was good. You could appreciate small favors right now.  
  
If only you’d known back then that the pain you were feeling now was nothing compared to the pain that was still coming. There was blackness and hollowness waiting for you, just a couple of hours away. But you weren’t aware of it yet as you stepped into the main room that your mother had disappeared in and found her crying into the carpet.  
  
Still on autopilot, you picked her up, pried the stack of official looking papers from her hands, replacing them with a paper tissue, and led her to the sofa in the middle of the room.  
  
“We have to go to the hospital. They’re waiting for me,” she kept repeating in a whispered tone.  
  
“You can’t drive like that,” you replied.  
  
You were pretty sure you were unfit to get behind the wheel of a car as well, but she didn’t question your abilities and you didn’t stop to think about it either. You took extra care while driving, thinking that you probably looked frightening already as it was. You didn’t want to add to it by getting into an accident. You needed to be whole, so Brian could make you well again. It wouldn’t later, but at the moment while you were driving, the thought made perfect sense to you. Somehow you did make it to the hospital alright. You remember meeting with the doctor who had pronounced your father dead and you remember your mom asking questions. He’d spent quite a while with the both of you, giving answers, but, strangely, you don’t remember anything of what was said.  
  
You remembered with a start the date you had with Brian; you were supposed to meet him in… half an hour ago? How did time pass so quickly? You looked around the room in search of a clock, to confirm that yours was not broken and it was really as late as your wrist watch was telling you.  
  
You had to go. Now. Brian was waiting for you. You were already late and, this time of day, it would take you almost half an hour to get to the place you agreed to meet. You rose to your feet and the doctor fell silent in the middle of a sentence, looking at you questioningly. Your mother was still clutching at your hand with both of hers and stared at you, a little bewildered and a lot sympathetic as she saw the panic on your face. If only she knew that it had nothing to do with your father. Your mother squeezed your hand and tugged on it to pull you back down onto the plastic chair beside her. You sank down again, your mind miles away and willing Brian to wait. Just a little bit longer. You knew he’d wait for you. He would. He certainly would. Just a little bit more.  
  
It wasn’t for another 30 minutes that you could make an excuse and leave the hospital, after driving by your house first and making sure your mother went inside and laid down on the couch after forcing her to take an Ambien. The drive to the corner where you’d agreed to meet was surprisingly short considering the rush hour, but it was long enough to go from berating yourself, preparing and practicing speeches or excuses and to hating yourself. The latter would soon turn into hate of a different kind.  
  
You parked your car at the curb of the road and, glancing around every couple of seconds, waited for several hours. Occasionally, you tried his parents’ landline, but nobody was picking up. You hadn’t really expected it to, but you couldn’t just do nothing. No, you hadn’t really been expecting him to still be there; you just couldn’t leave. Leaving would mean giving up – on him, on what you two had, on hope. Giving up was equivalent with dying a slow, painful death. You knew because that was what you went through when you returned home close to two o’clock in the morning. You’d thought you were all cried out, but you weren’t nearly done with it when the sun started to color the sky red some four hours later.  
  
You didn’t have to explain the puffy eyes to your mom and when you made to leave the house even though it wasn’t completely day outside yet, she didn’t ask questions. She was too busy dealing with her own grief to notice the addition to yours.  
  
You drove straight to his house and parked across the street, your eyes fixed unmovingly on the entrance door. His dad worked Saturdays too, you knew that, and he usually left the house around seven. You saw him come out, locking the door on his way out. You threw one last glance to the now empty house and started the car again. The school was your next stop. You just had to go there, never mind the fact that it was Saturday. Expectedly, it was empty. You began a systematic check of the city then, all of the places that you two ever hung out at or he’d mentioned visiting. You stopped by the diner, three different movie theaters (they weren’t even open yet), the restaurant where one of his colleagues had a day job, the soccer field in one of the city’s parks, the spot by the river where he liked to come to think, the place where you’d spent your first date. You broke down there; completely lost it. You wailed, stomped, beat the ground with your fists while crawling on all fours, screamed, cried, pleaded, and offered God a lifelong commitment to any church of his choosing if he’d only give you a little hint of where to look next. A hint, just a tiny little hint. A hint wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?  
  
God, in his omnipotent, almighty power, apparently decided that it was.  
  
Like most of the day and the ones following immediately after, everything bled into each other after that and was committed to your brain as a continuous stream of white noise. You went through the motions of calling a funeral home, choosing a casket and a suit to bury your father in. You sat with your mother as she made the funeral plans and set a date for a memorial service. You’d never before thought about all the tedious and mundane tasks that were connected to the death of a person. It took you half a day to go through the list of numbers you needed to call and people you needed to notify – from attorneys and accountants to insurance and credit card companies, as well as utilities department; and why the fuck hadn’t those been taken care of before? He had spent the last 6 months of his life in a coma, for fuck’s sake.  
  
Your mom had taken it upon herself to notify the family. There were a couple of aunts and uncles that had to be informed of the date of the memorial and a whole bunch of relatives you’d never met in your life, but your mom insisted on calling. She was still on the phone when you retreated into your room for the night. When your head hit the pillow, the fog that had surrounded you the past hours, suddenly lifted. The pain of the loss slammed into you and you were grateful that you were already horizontal when it did. It felt like you were being catapulted into your body after having taken a temporary leave. And your body was hurting. The pain was overwhelming. It cut off your air supply. You tried to sit up, but didn’t have enough energy left to do so, so you just laid there, unable to move and slowly suffocating.  
  
Eventually you fell into a fretful sleep, only to be jarred awake by the most horrible of dreams. You gasped, loudly and absolutely horrified, when you remembered: It hadn’t been a dream. It wouldn’t be the last time that your body was propelled out of the bed by sheer horror, constricting your lungs so tight that you had to search your night desk for the inhaler you hadn’t needed in almost two years now.


	22. "The nice life, the nice home, the nice boyfriend."

**> May 2009<**  
  
After you were through hating yourself, you turned the hate on your father. It was four weeks after the funeral – four weeks in which, every single day, you visited all of the places you’d ever known Brian to hang out at. Four weeks in which you barely slept or ate, refused to participate in any of the school activities, including studying for the finals. Four weeks in which you’d lost so much weight, your mother had to ask you if you were anorexic.  
  
“I’m not, Mom,” you had replied in a flat tone.  
  
“I don’t remember when I’ve seen you eat for the last time,” she’d insisted.  
  
Obligingly, you put a piece of mango in your mouth. The taste reminded you that it was one of Brian’s favorite fruits and you had to force yourself not to spit it out again. The nausea was so overwhelming, you turned green in your face.  
  
Your mother reached out to feel your forehead, but you jerked back. You couldn’t stand being touched anymore. It wasn’t psychological, no PTSD or similar disease that prevented you from seeking contact to other human beings. No. You had taken to wearing his jacket all the time, the one he’d left in your car the day you were supposed to run away together. You didn’t want to risk getting anyone’s scent onto it, for fear it would dilute Brian’s. You also weren’t ready to admit that his scent was already long gone from the jacket. But if you tried hard enough, when you buried your nose deep into the worn leather, you thought you could still smell him, even feel his body heat. That was how you were spending your nights now – imagining, remembering, pretending. Anything to occupy your thoughts so that when you finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, you were sure your sleep would be dreamless.  
  
“Honey,” your mother had started using her compassionate voice, “Have you and Brian broken up?”  
  
You winced at hearing his name. The pain to your heart was immediate and literally breathtaking. You laughed mirthlessly. What  _did_  you call the status of your relationship now? It was hard enough to define it while it was ongoing; you found it impossible to find words for it now.  
  
“It’s just… He used to come by our house every day and I haven’t seen him for a while now…” She let the sentence hang there unfinished.  
  
What were you supposed to answer to that?  
  
“He’s gone,” you answered. “And I shouldn’t be here either,” you added quietly, but you didn’t care that she heard you anyway.  
  
“What do you mean by that?” A new kind of expression manifested on her face; one you hadn’t seen before. You watched her as she slowly realized that there was more to the story than you were telling her. “Where is Brian, Justin?”  
  
Wouldn’t you like to know? You’d called his dad a few days ago, pretended to be a guy from school who was wondering how much longer until Brian returned to classes. His dad had gotten angry at the innocent question and just barked into the phone that he hadn’t seen him in almost a month and as far as he was concerned, he had no son at all, and to never call his house again.  
  
“I don’t know,” you answered. Had your voice always sounded so devoid of emotion?  
  
“What is going on?” your mother demanded to know. It was obvious that your lifeless behavior was scaring the hell out of her.  
  
“Brian left town,” you replied. She might as well know the truth. What difference did it make now? What difference did anything make now? “They weren’t going to let him graduate and he wasn’t going to go on living with his dad, so he left town.” Your eyes remained distant all the time you were retelling the facts, fixed on the opposite wall, but seeing nothing at all. Your voice was distinct, but flat, like a sparkling water that becomes stale if you let it stand for too long. That’s exactly how you felt too. “I was supposed to go with him. And I was going to,” you admitted, showing emotion again for the first time in weeks. “But Dad… he…” You took a deep breath and tried again, “I came home to get my stuff because I was leaving. With Brian.” Her eyes got wide at the news, but you had no time for it now. It didn’t matter, just like nothing else did nowadays. “But you were home. And then we got to the hospital. And everything after that is a blur.” You paused, collecting your thoughts. “I was supposed to meet him at two p.m. And I was there… I was there… only… an hour or so too late.” One fucking hour. Was that going to be the story of your life? One fucking hour that changed the course of it forever?  
  
“And now he’s gone and I don’t… don’t know where he is… Or what he’s thinking about what happened. Why I didn’t show.” And the most difficult of them all, “You think he hates me now?” you asked your mom in a voice that was breaking and reminded you entirely too much of your scared, four-year-old self when you asked your parents to check under your bed for monsters before you went to sleep. You would have loved to know the answer to your question, but you were scared of it, too. That thought tortured you more than all the others. That he was somewhere, alone, maybe scared, lonely, angry, and maybe, possibly, probably with a lot of hate for you in his heart. Not that you didn’t deserve it. You did. You just hated the fact that he thought you’d let him down too, like so many others in the past year had done.  
  
You were prepared for almost anything; mostly because you didn’t care for any of it very much. Now that you told your mother that you had actually been planning on running away, you were expecting a telling-off, a lecture, a guilt trip. You were prepared for tears, accusations, yelling, the silent treatment. You figured she was going with the last one when all was quiet for several minutes.  
  
“I know you’re hurting right now. I know you’re devastated. I know how hopeless you must feel right now.” That you weren’t prepared for. “I know he was your first love,” she continued. You would have interrupted her, told her that he wasn’t just the ‘first love’, he was and forever would be ‘the only’. But you were so shocked at her calm tone, her compassion, you could just sit there and listen. “I can only imagine how confused you must feel right now. And I can’t tell you that you’re going to feel better tomorrow or next week. But I can promise you that it’ll pass. That you’ll feel better  _eventually_. No matter how improbable it seems to you now.”  
  
“Improbable? Try impossible.”  
  
She smiled sadly at you and took a few steps closer, standing in front of you. She raised her arms but hesitated as if asking you for permission to hug you. You still didn’t want to be touched. But she was your mom and she may have needed the hug just as much as you did. So you pulled off Brian’s jacket, placed it carefully on the stool beside you and slowly and carefully let her arms encircle you.  
  
You didn’t know what effect you expected the embrace to have, but probably not this. You felt suffocated, the pain you had somehow managed to dumb down enough to function like a normal person, or a very human-like robot, thrummed through every one of your nerves. Moving your arms hurt, standing was painful, blinking, talking,  _thinking_  caused you indescribable physical pain. Your insides felt like being torn apart as the knowledge that you’d never again hold Brian in your arms like this manifested itself in your heart.  
  
You pushed your mother away, fiercer than necessary. She did  _not_  understand. She might have thought that she did, but she didn’t. Nobody could. “No,” you almost screamed when she tried to hug you again. “No, no, no, no-no-no-no-no-no-no…” You felt like your brain was shutting down. You actually saw a safety curtain slowly slide down in your mind’s inner eye. You felt almost relieved when it started getting darker around you.  
  
“Justin,” your mother’s stern-soft voice pulled at you. “Justin, I promise it’ll get better.”  
  
“No!” you yelled this time for real. “No, it won’t. Stop saying that!”  
  
“I know how you feel—”  
  
“You don’t,” you cut her off. “How could you?” You took a few steps away from her, grabbing Brian’s jacket and pulling it on again. “When… When you met Dad, when you married him, did you think he was the guy you’d never ever fall out of love with? Did you think he was the one?” Your mind was so focused on her; you hadn’t been so focused on anything since your dad died. But you really wanted her to understand. She’d never be able to grasp the difference completely, but maybe you could make her see that it wasn’t as simple as she wanted it to seem.  
  
“You’re my son. My seventeen year old son. You shouldn’t be asking me those questions.” She evaded an answer, you knew that.  
  
“Maybe,” you agreed. “But I am. So?”  
  
She paused to think for a moment. You were grateful that she was taking her time to seriously consider your question instead of giving you a standard reply that wouldn’t satisfy the truth.  
  
“I was in love,” she finally said.  
  
“Is that a ‘no’?”  
  
She shrugged. “That’s a ‘I didn’t know better.’”  
  
“Well, I do,” you replied. “One day, one very fine day in the far, far future, I may have the nice life, the nice home, even the nice boyfriend.” It almost broke you to say this last part. “But Brian will always be there. In my head. In my heart. There’ll be others, of course there will be. But there’ll never be someone else.”  
  
She looked at you with pity in her eyes. You’d thought you wanted her understanding, but you couldn’t take her sympathy.  
  
You shook your head and stormed out of the kitchen. On your way to the door, she called after you, “Where are you going?”  
  
“The cemetery.”


	23. "I want you to know something."

**> June 2009<**  
  
You stood in front of the grave, just looking at the tombstone. It was simple. Your mother had wanted something simple. Grey stone, with a name and two dates. No ‘beloved husband’ or ‘loving father’ or any epitaph that played homage to the great nothingness that had been Craig Taylor’s existence. You felt just as empty as the stone was bare.  
  
It was a warm summer day, the spring had fully capitulated to summer, but you were freezing, even underneath Brian’s jacket.  
  
“Congratulations, Dad,” you finally began to speak. “You managed to disgrace every good memory I had with you while growing up by turning into an asshole when you couldn’t deal with having a gay son. You tried to belittle me, and insult me; you called me a pervert, and an abomination and a bunch of other hateful words that I am not going to repeat because you’re dead and I am better than you.”  
  
You took a moment to breathe and calm down and to focus.  
  
“I need you to know something. My tears at the funeral… They weren’t for you. I want you to know I never cried for  _you_. You’ve been dead to me long before your heart stopped beating. You hurt Mom, you broke up a family, and you died alone.”  
  
Again, you paused because the last thing you wanted to do was cry now. “But somehow… Somehow you still managed, even with your death, to find a way to get one last good punch in.” You stopped and nodded. “So I thought I’d stop by and congratulate you on that. Brian’s gone; not that you would have ever been interested in knowing him. He was the only person I ever wanted to love, to be with. And now he’s gone and I’m all alone. Just like you always will be.”  
  
Your gaze fixed on some point on the horizon, you tapped your foot a few times. “Hey, we’ve found something we’ve got in common after all, huh?” you said before you turned and walked away.


	24. "Constantly on the verge of an explosion."

**> April 2012<**  
  
Following up on the plans you made this morning, you and Brian agreed to meet up in front of the movie theater. Partly to remind himself of the movie date and partly because you’re bored, you send him a text telling him where exactly you’ll be waiting for him.  
  
It’s Tuesday which is your longest day this semester. Because your last course runs until 6 PM it doesn’t make sense for you to go home, only to leave again after five minutes. So once the professor dismisses the class, you head for the small coffee shop about one block away from the theater. You have about an hour’s time to pass, so you walk slowly and stop at a few shop windows on your way. It’s fall and fallen, dry leaves are rustling underneath your feet and you feel like the artist in you is expected to appreciate nature’s changing colors and how they dye the air a soft pink, but all you can think about is that you hate it. You’ve always hated fall. You like all colors of course, it kind of comes with the territory, but if you were to be honest, hues of yellow and orange have never been your favorite. You realize of course that that’s only part of the truth; you hate change. That’s the real reason. In your 21 plus years every major change in life so far has been for the worse; they’ve all been forced on you and you’re just so sick of feeling like a pawn, not much better than a dry leaf being tossed by the rough gust of wind.  
  
Not for the first time you resolve to change things. Even though you are kind of afraid of change, you pledge to yourself that you’re done feeling like this – a little unfinished, subliminally depressed, and constantly on the verge of an explosion… or a nervous breakdown. Ever since you and Brian reconnected you’ve been feeling like living between two worlds. There’s the one where you’re friends, which is great. Really, it is. You’re glad that you patched up things, found a way to have a sort of a relationship after the quasi-relationship of a different kind that you tried to have in high school. It makes you feel oddly grown-up, like you’ve accomplished something not many people can pride themselves on. And it is a great friendship; you don’t have to remind yourself about that. That’s a pleasing fact that accompanies you through your daily routines. No matter how miserable or stressful the day, you have always Brian to look forward to. The evening which you spend talking and drinking cheap wine; sometimes you would experiment with a recipe from your mother’s cookbook and Brian’s facial expression when he cautiously takes a bite of whatever concoction you’ve come up with is always hilarious. How you’d order take-out after that and lounge in front of the too small TV, eating out of the containers and switching every couple of minutes. The TV is muted because the commentary you and Brian come up with is always more hysterical than any sitcom could come up with. Fridays and Saturdays are less stellar, admittedly. Because those are the days that Brian leaves the apartment around 10 or 11 and he’s never alone when he comes back in the wee hours of the morning. But you’ve learned to deal with that.  
  
This, unfortunately, brings you to the other world that you reside in half of the time. The one where your heart is constantly breaking because you are so close to him physically and yet so far away. Ever since you moved in with him about six months ago, your life has been a constant of alternating hot and cold showers. In some cases literally. Brian, at 22, is stunning, inside and out. Most of the time, to the outside world, he pretends to be an asshole and he acts like it too… most of the time. Whether it’s because of your history or because you’ve known him differently and don’t buy into his bullshit as easily, he’s different with you. It should help matters, you think, but, strangely it doesn’t. Quite the opposite is true. Knowing he’s different with you makes you feel special in ways it shouldn’t. And so you chalk it up to the artist in you when you let your eyes roam his toned, lightly tanned body and refuse to acknowledge the way your skin prickles when he comes too close or brushes against you in a casual way while reaching for something. Your fingertips prickle whenever you touch him or hug him – in a very friendly, exclusively platonic manner, of course. You attribute that to muscle memory and your shared past of having known him in a slightly more intimate way. It has nothing to do with a very present desire or yearning. Or so you continue to tell yourself. And you’ve learned a while ago to ignore the voice inside your head that always cackles uncontrollably at that. You’ve learned some other things as well. Like, how to control your hands so they wouldn’t stray without your permission. Brian believes it’s the stress of juggling school and a job that has you biting your nails all the time. It isn’t and he will never know. You’ve also learned how to school your adoring looks and how to keep the jealousy out of your eyes to always keep a neutral expression. And you have no idea if Brian has a theory on that too. Maybe he thinks you’re frigid. Come to think of it, he did call you a snob a few times because of the way you neglected every hot guy he pointed out to you as a possible hook-up.  
  
And it doesn’t help that Brian’s goal in life seems to be to fuck his way through the Northeastern part of the country before he’s 30. You just wish you wouldn’t have to play witness to his many conquests; that’s all.  
  
You’re not his type. Not anymore. You wonder if you ever were. After having had the disputable pleasure of entertaining, supplying with coffee or phone numbers of a taxi service, or simply showing the door to Brian’s nightly guests the morning after, you have arrived at the realization that Brian has a type. And it’s definitely not you. His tricks are always tall, always dark-haired. Most of the time they’re well-muscled or at least toned. They’re also kind of dumb, though you admit to being kind of partial on that front. But it does make you wonder on occasion how some of the specimen that Brian brings home with him have mastered the art of walking upright. It’s a cop-out, you realize that, but sometimes you indulge in a fantasy of initiating something with Brian. Just to know what it would be like. And maybe you would, if you weren’t convinced, beyond any doubt, that his interest in you was purely  _platonic_. And, holy fucking shit, how you’ve come to hate this word lately! Luckily – yeah, right, the voice in your head supplies in a derisive huff – you have the tricks to remind you of that; the tricks that are everything you’re not.  
  
In the beginning you wondered how it was that he was interested in you back in high school. But that’s a no-brainer, really. You were the only other out gay kid back then and you were… though you hate to admit it, you were convenient. Knowing it hurts, so you stifle the thought back down again and tell yourself once again that things will have to change. Maybe moving in together wasn’t such a great idea after all. The pain and heartache slowly starts to outweigh the positive things and you hate that.  
  
This not so new resolve is muffled a little by the knowledge that it’ll only last until Brian gets there. All of your similar resolves in the past have collapsed, been forgotten, or waved goodbye and left the building the moment he turned his twinkling eyes or his smile on you.  
  
Your mind supplies the fitting background music for your dilemma – a long-stretched, melancholy, and somewhat cheesy kind of tune to mirror the heaven and hell you found yourself living in.  
  
For two years, since after graduating high school and until starting here, at Carnegie Mellon, you’d thought about him daily, wondering where he was or what he was doing and what was going on in his life, wondered if he still thought of you, imagined what he was occupying himself with. Maybe the universe was sick of your questions and decided to give you an answer when it made both of your paths cross again. Well, you had your answer now. More than that. Not only did you know now where he was and what he was doing; no, you also knew  _whom_  he was doing. You could have lived without knowing that. You’ll be sure to phrase your requests more carefully in the future.


	25. "Friends can have coffee."

**> August 2011<**  
  
Returning to Pittsburgh was difficult enough; but living with your mother, after two years of living on your own, was torture. It wasn’t even that she was stifling you or anything. You simply weren’t used to questions about your comings and goings anymore, no matter the fact that she wasn’t trying to be nosey or controlling. You also weren’t used to having to do small talk during breakfast or being quiet when you came home late. All of it was pulling on your nerves and, after a semester of this, you decided to get your own place. Dorm room was the obvious choice, but after you politely asked if there were still single rooms available and were almost laughed at, you abandoned that idea. What was the point of sharing a room with a stranger when you could barely stand sharing an entire condo with your mother?  
  
You checked the remaining amount in your college fund, calculated how much of it was reserved for tuition, figured in your meager earnings from the job in the diner, and came up with a sum you would be able to spend for your own place. The next few days you spent scouring newspapers, bulletin boards, and the internet in search of an apartment that was, ideally, close to campus and yet affordable. Again, your expectations were shattered when you realized that finding something to fit both categories was close to impossible. So eventually you widened your search to include areas you ignored before and were actually able to find something within your budget range. Your mother didn’t approve. She knew you were looking for a place of your own – that wasn’t the problem. The problem was, basically, the address.  
  
“Justin, it’s unsafe.”  
  
“Oh my god, Mom,” you tried to reason with her. “It’s not Detroit. We’re still living in Pittsburgh, you know.”  
  
“I just want you safe, honey,” she pleaded. And it was so unfair. How were you supposed to stand firm on your decision when she turned her pitiful eyes on you?  
  
“Mom, I can’t afford any of the safer neighborhoods,” you reminded her quietly. “And I’ll be careful, I promise.”  
  
“I know you will. It’s not you I’m concerned about.” She sighed. “What about that top floor apartment you were telling me about?”  
  
“I can’t afford Squirrel Hill, Mom,” you repeated, “And besides, it’s probably long gone by now.”  
  
“And the one bedroom in Shadyside?”  
  
And that’s how it went for the next hour – she tried to convince you to keep looking while you tried to convince her that you’ve already seen every available one bedroom apartment in a three miles radius of the CMU and you were _exhausted_. You’ve seen them all. And with the new semester just around the corner, you knew they were all already taken.  
  
“What about two bedroom apartments?” she asked.  
  
You didn’t have the strength to pick up your head, so you just rolled your eyes at her from where it lay on the kitchen counter, across your arms. “Mom? Do you derive some weird sort of pleasure from hearing me say that  _I can’t afford it_?” you joked.  
  
“What if I helped you with that?”  
  
It sparked a short but heated discussion in which you refused to take her money and she refused to back down from the idea. You reached some sort of compromise eventually.  
  
“Your father left you money.”  
  
“What?” It was the first you heard of it. Admittedly, you refused to hear anything connected to your father after the funeral, so it wasn’t like it was your mom’s fault that this was news to you. “I thought all of the money he had went to cover his medical bills?”  
  
“A lot of it, yes. But there is another fund that is in your name. The money will be available to you once you turn 25. Your father thought, by that time, you’d be done with the master and would need it to settle down somewhere.”  
  
“I’m 21.”  
  
“Take my money now and, if you absolutely must, you can pay me back once you are 25 and have access to the fund.”  
  
It was tempting. So damn tempting. Too tempting to say no; so you said yes.  
  
The next morning you and about half a dozen other interested people were shown into a two bedroom top floor apartment in a neighborhood that you and your mother could agree upon; the rent was affordable and it was reasonably safe while still being not too far from college. There were a few students and a young family among the prospective tenants and you all spread out, inspecting the two bedrooms, kitchen, and bathroom. You liked the apartment immediately, liked the large window to the side of the fully equipped kitchen; you could see yourself there. You inspected the first bedroom and were on your way to see the second when something that caught your attention from the corner of your vision made you freeze in your track.  
  
It was him. Well, no, of course it wasn’t  _him_  him, but your mind made you believe that it was. His back was turned to you in a way that less than half his profile was visible to you as he was gazing out the window you’d admired minutes before. You went through the motions of knowing that it was just another stranger, one who looked frighteningly like Brian and you were so used to seeing him in random strangers, that it still surprised you when your breath hitched or your heart skipped a beat. What you were used to was the sharp stab of pain that followed immediately after. But it happened so often, you barely paid attention to it anymore.  
  
You saw him in the weirdest situations and the weirdest people. Teenagers, old men, sometimes even women. But you’d never tell him that. You sighed inwardly. You still did that - this thing in your head where you classified every information, everything that you saw or experiences into categories of things that you would or would not tell him. As if talking to him was still an option. Maybe, you thought, you were a sucker for pain, because even though it has been years since the last time you saw him, even though you didn’t know where he was or what he was doing, and even though you were starting to forget what his voice had sounded like, the world was still divided into topics that you’d talk out with Brian and those that were unimportant.  
  
This, meeting a guy that looked strikingly like Brian and for once even seemed to be appropriate age, you would have told him about. You imagine that you would have shared a laugh, maybe philosophized whether every person on the planet had a twin. This was also something that you did on occasion: have entire conversations with Brian in your head, complete with chuckles and smiles and comfortable silences. And then he turned and you were 17 again. You were back in the locker room, back in your old skin that hasn’t felt as comfortable back then as it did now, back to nervous fidgeting, and back to awed gaping. And he was nothing like his old self, nothing like you remembered or imagined him to be now.  
  
He was rougher, edgier somehow; and it had little to do with the fact that he’d gained muscle mass. His eyes didn’t shine as they used to, but you couldn’t be completely sure that you hadn’t built them up in your head. And there was a tension around his mouth, a constant sneer... no, not a sneer... a twitch, as though he was constantly battling the impulse to release a snarky comment, a sarcastic remark. And he was more beautiful than you remembered.  
  
You stared at him for what felt like an eternity, your mouth agape and your brain buzzing with millions of half-formed questions. And he stared back at you. You were cognizant enough to notice that in the past you were able to read his every emotion from the expression on his face or the look in his eyes. You couldn’t anymore. His face was a mask of perfect inscrutability. For the briefest moment, something would flicker in his eyes, but it was so fleeting, you couldn’t be sure that you hadn’t simply imagined it. You wondered when he’d learned to guard himself like this; wondered if it was maybe partly your fault too?  
  
And then his lips curved into a slow, lazy smile and you ceased breathing altogether. You’d forgotten that he could have this effect on you.  
  
He pushed both hands into the side pockets of his jeans and strolled over, eyes fixed on you, that damn smile still playing on his lips. His gait had changed. Despite your brain firing in all the wrong directions,  _that_  you noticed. You couldn’t  _not_  notice. His prowl made your dick stir in your pants. And then he was there, standing so close to you, way too close. You could smell his aftershave and - oh, God! - your senses swam, you gasped for breath, but the air was scented with his presence, and you tried to breathe through your mouth, probably looking ridiculous. Where the fuck was your inhaler when you needed it? You needed to be away from his smell; it clouded your brain and disabled your ability to speak. You took a small step back, hoping to escape the effect he was having on you, and his smile faltered ever so slightly. Immediately you regretted your faux pas, but it was too late to do anything about it now. So you plastered on a fake smile and extended an arm in greeting.  
  
His eyes darted to your outstretched hand and you thought you saw confusion in his eyes before they were too low to read them. When he looked up again, the surprise was gone from his face and with a polite and somewhat impersonal smile he shook your hand. Nothing – no memory, no fantasy, no amount of planning – could have prepared you for the touch of his skin on yours again. You might have visibly recoiled at the touch; not because you didn’t want it, but because it made you realize that you weren’t as in control of your life as you wanted to believe yourself to be.  
  
“Brian,” you said, or rather breathed. You couldn’t bring yourself to say ‘Hi’ or ‘How are you’ or any other of the trivialities. What was appropriate? How did you greet a person that you care more about than yourself and that you never got to say goodbye to?  
  
“What are you doing here?” he asked straightforward, also foregoing a greeting, but managing to make it sound politely surprised.  
  
“Looking at apartments,” you replied.  
  
He tilted his head, letting you know without words that it wasn’t what he’d meant. You’d known what he was asking, but it was easier to pretend, at least for a few more seconds, that you didn’t.  
  
“Dorm rooms at the CMU are for shit,” you replied and let him figure out the rest that went unsaid.  
  
“Same for the Pitt,” he nodded.  
  
You tried not to show how surprised and pleased you were that he, obviously, managed to not only graduate high school, but go to college as well, even if it was a public school. It didn’t matter; you were proud of him even though you had no longer a right to be.  
  
“So, what do you think about this place? Your new home?” he asked, and you didn’t know if he was honestly interested in your opinion or just making polite conversation.  
  
You pretended to glance around one more time before replying, “Naw, I don’t think so. I guess I’ll have to keep looking.”  
  
It was weird. You disliked small talk on a normal day, but having to do it with Brian felt almost like an out-of-body experience. There were so many other things you wanted to ask him, to tell him, to share with him. And all you managed to talk about was this? You’d known him so intimately once upon a time. It calmed you somewhat when you realized that he, despite outer appearances to the contrary, wasn’t feeling one hundred percent himself either.  
  
“Yeah,” he agreed on the topic of the apartment. “Me too.” He cleared his throat and said, “Okay, well…,” plastered on a smile that seemed as fake as your own, “it was nice seeing you again.”  
  
You smiled and nodded in response and felt as awkward as never before in your life. He lingered instead of turning away. And it was that fact that made you call out to him when he finally did turn to walk away, “How about coffee?”  
  
He stopped, turned, grinned, and it didn’t look fake anymore. “Coffee?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. This eyebrow thing was new. The tongue in cheek wasn’t. How was it possible that you’d forgotten about that?  
  
His suggestive question made you sputter out a reply that, unfortunately or not, determined the future status of your relationship. “A friendly coffee. As friends.”  
  
He smirked and looked as though he was about to reply something to that, but then he didn’t and you weren’t sure why you were relieved. “Sure,” he agreed. “Friends can have coffee. Now?” And just like that the ice was broken and you could remember how to breathe again, and your smile came more natural.  
  
You shrugged. “My day is free. I wasn’t planning on doing anything but apartment hunting today. But I can do it tomorrow as well.”  
  
“Or we can do it together,” he suggested. “You in business for a roommate?”  
  
No, you weren’t. The whole idea of getting an apartment was about not having to bother with a roommate. “Sure, why not?”  
  
“I’m pretty easy to live with. If you don’t mind guests that stay the night every now and then.”  
  
Or maybe  _that_  was the point that determined the status of your relationship. You wanted to appear easy-going and cool, so you shrugged it off and said, “I don’t mind.”  
  
You walked a couple of blocks, neither of you familiar with the area, until you found a coffee shop that looked okay enough to sit down for a while.  
  
“I deferred enrollment in Dartmouth for a year and blew a lot of the college fund money on backpacking through Europe for a year,” you found yourself recounting the story of your not-so-exciting life a short while later.  
  
“Wow,” Brian was appropriately impressed.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” you said in a bored tone, nodding. “You can’t call yourself a man until you’ve slept on a park bench in Brussels and been pick-pocketed while standing in line at the Coliseum in Rome.” Whenever you told about your year in Europe you always wondered why it sounded so special and exciting to everyone. It really wasn’t. Yeah, the art was nice as were some of the architecture and historic sites, but mostly it was one long train ride after another, one youth hostel after the next. The most perfect thing about Europe, at least to you, was the anonymity of everything; to forget everything and being able to get lost in a sea of tourists and faces and to be left to your own devices. “I came back, went to Dartmouth, and spent a lot of the time I was supposed to be studying trying to get used to living in the US again by spending another good part of my college fund on good dope. I was supposed to major in economics, but I don’t remember ever going to a class twice. One evening, a few guys I sometimes hung out with, dragged me to a play that was performed by the college’s own theater group. The guys were friends with some of the girls that had a part in the play or whatever. We all went out afterwards, for a late dinner and drinks. And I remember how, for the first time since…” You stopped suddenly, realizing what you were about to say. You cleared your throat, louder than necessary, to cover your embarrassment, and started again, “… for the first time in a long time I felt alive again. Before, everything was somehow muted and muffled, dull. And those people… God, just talking about art and about creating and inspiration and talent and whatnot… It was like a long overdue wake up call. It felt so good to be around people that considered themselves artists. The art program at Dartmouth is for shit, really, but just knowing these people was… eye opening. I snuck into a few art history classes after that. By the end of the second semester I stuffed everything I had into my bags and left.”  
  
You were good at that – leaving. But you didn’t tell him that. You suspected he knew anyway.  
  
“Where did you go?” Brian asked.  
  
You scrunched up your face before replying, embarrassed again, albeit for different reasons now. “Back home. I haven’t really been home since… Well, it’s been a crazy time. First Europe, then Dartmouth. My mom was happy to have me back. And I, of course, had missed her, but if the decision would have been completely up to me, I wouldn’t have gone back to the Pitts. It’s just… there are so many…” You took a deep breath and had to try again. In all your imagined conversations with Brian, you never had to watch what you said. You would have to learn how to do that now. “I… We both…” How weird it was to talk about the two of you again. “We always wanted to leave and suddenly I was coming back, like the world has defeated me.” There. It did sound believable, right? You hoped it did. “But by the end of my second semester of unofficial procrastination, I was almost broke. I wanted to go to art school, but I only had enough to pay for maybe one year of tuition? So I had to budget my expenses. I applied to PIFA and they rejected me. My mother had pushed me to apply to Carnegie Mellon as well. At first I didn’t want to, but I didn’t want to risk being left empty-handed. Good thing she did, because CMU was the only school who wanted me. So I took the spot they offered and been a student in their fine arts program ever since. Just finished my first semester.  
  
“Where do you live now? Off-campus?”  
  
“Yeah. With my mom. That’s why I have to find an apartment soon. Preferably before I go insane.”  
  
He chuckled at that and nodded his understanding.  
  
“I wasn’t joking when I said I’m looking for a roommate,” he reminded you.  
  
Was it crazy to agree on the spot? Probably. But saying no to Brian has never worked in the past. Why would you want to set a precedent now? Talking to him again and being reminded how easy it always was between the two of you – why was it always so hard to talk to other people? And why was it always so easy with Brian? – was what made you say yes to the idea of living together. Strictly as platonic friends, though that was only implied and not spoken out loud. Later you would be angry with yourself that you didn’t bring up your past; that you hadn’t insisted on a clearing talk, but back then, while you sat at the table in that café, you were relieved that you didn’t have to. You thought there’d be time for all of that, once you’ve re-established some kind of friendship.  
  
His eyes lit up with excitement as you agreed and, for a moment, you could see the old Brian peek through the mask of this adult one. It intrigued you to get to know this version of him better. He asked the waitress if they had today’s paper available and when she brought it over, he buried his head in the housing listings while you watched him, mesmerized by just being able to do so again.  
  
He looked different now. Of course he did. Most noticeable was his height. He’d been tall in high school already, and now he’d grown immensely. His shoulders were broader and his hips, though also broader than you remembered them being, set his upper body into a nice proportion, giving his body a beautiful V-shape. His legs, despite being covered by jeans, looked well-toned, the thighs filling up the pant leg enticingly. But it was his stomach that made your mouth salivate. He was defined and the black t-shirt he was wearing allowed his muscles to play under the thin fabric. He looked like a fucking wet dream and you felt like a teenager, about to come in your pants.  
  
Weeks later, after hours spent in coffee shops and intense conversations of catching up, you began to see other changes as well. He was sarcastic to the point of being almost uncaring of the feelings of his peers. He was arrogant, though never presumptuous. It was his self-confidence that made him appear that way, you knew that. Still, it was difficult to interact with him, though you did notice that he was making an effort to tone it down for you. All of this and a million other things that he’d adopted or changed about himself made it hard to see the boy that you’d once known. The unsure boy, afraid of rejection, desperately needing love and encouragement and… a friend, the boy who was romantic and who used to smile this beautiful, open smile and who’d loved  _you_  – that boy was still there; you caught glimpsed of him now and then. But it seemed as if Brian had buried him so deep down, that he only managed to slip out in Brian’s unguarded moments. Those moments were bittersweet. Because even when you could see inside Brian and recognize your shared past in his eyes, he’d subtly remind you that his love was purely platonic now. And though the pain in your heart was sharp, the voice in your head was reasonable. And it told you that platonic love was better than no love at all. And being Brian’s friend was not a consolation prize. Your love, of course, was still of the old kind. Though it was different now too.  
  
You loved the boy. You love the man more.


	26. "The lesson you are meant to learn."

**> April 2012<**  
  
The aria in your head that accompanied your thoughts and memories comes to a halt with one last mournful tone and is followed by applause. That’s odd. There’s never been applause before. That’s when you realize the music isn’t in your head. It had carried from a lone figure standing on the corner, holding a violin and wearing gloves with the fingers cut off. A few passersby that had stopped to listen are stepping forward to put money into the bowl that is placed on the ground. You keep your distance and watch as the guy gets ready to play another piece. He tries a tone, pauses, listens, tries another. After a few attempts he lowers the bow and the violin, releasing a frustrated sigh and turns his head in your direction.  
  
“You’re distracting,” he calls out and you think you can hear a note of amusement in his voice.  
  
“Are you talking to me?” you wonder out loud.  
  
“I don’t see anyone else scrutinizing me with his eyes.”  
  
You step closer, into the glow of the streetlamp under which he is standing. “Sorry,” you say, “I’ll stop.”  
  
“Stop what?” he asks.  
  
“Being distracting.”  
  
“And how do you plan on doing that?” Is he flirting with you? His eyes twinkle and he fights against a grin.  
  
“Uhm…” you give back. “I could go?” It comes out a question even though you didn’t intend it to be one.  
  
“I wish you wouldn’t,” he answers and, yes, he  _is_  flirting. His voice had gone soft and low and he looks at you from under his lashes. You have to smile back. “Hi,” he says, extending an arm in your direction after transferring his bow to his left hand, “I’m Ethan.”  
  
You take the offered hand. “Justin. Justin Taylor.”  
  
“Hmm, Justin,” he repeats, savoring your name on his tongue. It makes a tingle run down your back as it reminds you of the way Brian used to call you Sunshine; way back when. “Okay, Justin Taylor, let’s see if I can make this pained look in your eyes disappear.”  
  
He picks up the bow again and lifts the violin to his chin, trying a few notes again. Then his eyes fixate on you and [music](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNsxXued784) pours from his instrument, woeful and sad, but at the same time oddly soothing and optimistic, and oh so beautiful.  
  
You arrive at the movie theater a few minutes late. Brian is pacing back and forth in front of the entrance, cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth. He glares you down. “Where the fuck were you? Didn’t your class leave out at six?”  
  
“Yeah. Sorry. I was in the café and forgot the time.” The lie comes so easily across your lips and you don’t even know why you’re lying to him. Maybe it’s because you just experienced something special, something that could be more, which throws you off-balance and excites you in equal parts. In any case it is something you have to figure out first on your own before you can share it with anyone.  
  
You barely pay attention to the movie playing on the screen. It’s some horror flick that would turn your muscles into stone were you actively watching. Brian is under the impression that you have a morbid fascination with horror movies. It is completely possible that you were actively involved in installing this erroneous belief in him. It’s wrong, you know that, but you couldn’t give up little things like burying your face into Brian’s shoulder when the scenes on screen became too bloody, or having Brian’s arm stroke your back soothingly to calm your racing pulse. Friends did little things like that for each other, right? And Brian would never have to know that your motivations were of a different kind.  
  
However, neither Brian nor the plot-lacking story on screen is the reason for your straying thoughts tonight. You wonder if Ethan is a sign. Maybe the universe is telling you to finally let go of your unrequited love for Brian? Are you being stubborn by not wanting to hear it? You’ve known Brian for roughly 4 years. Granted, most of those you had spent incommunicado and boiled down, you barely spent more than a few months with each other because even when you were in a relationship, the pauses were longer than the in-betweens. But maybe that’s a sign all of its own. In the years that you’ve known him, you were happy for barely more than a couple of weeks. People that are meant to be together gotta manage better than that, right? But, God, those weeks – they were the fucking best of your life! And why were you shown happiness like this, for it only to be taken away and never return thereafter? That doesn’t seem fair to you. But maybe it’s finally time to stop blaming fate and actively work on finding this kind of happiness again. And maybe the lesson you are meant to learn is that you can find it with someone else.


	27. "You lied to me today."

**> April 2012<**  
  
You are ripped from sleep in the middle of the night when Brian’s heavy body drops beside you into your bed. You groan in frustration, refusing to wake up more than you already have.  
  
“Wrong room again, Brian.”  
  
“No, pretty sure it’s the right one,” he replies and he sounds far more sober than on other, similar occasions where he stumbled into your bedroom instead of his own while dragging an equally inebriated trick along with him. Now that you’re slightly more awake, you realize that you can’t smell alcohol on him either. Cigarettes, yes, and a lot too, like he’d smoked a whole pack in the last hour, but no alcohol.  
  
“What do you want?” you mumble and rub the sleep from your eyes.  
  
While he sorts his thoughts to form an answer, you blindly grope for your phone on the bedside table. You want to know whether you should keep this conversation short and return to sleep or if it’s already early enough that you might as well stay awake and start the day. It’s 4.13 and you cringe. That’s neither here nor there. You hate Brian a little right now.  
  
“You lied to me today,” Brian finally speaks. “I didn’t like it.”  
  
You open your mouth, about to protest, or maybe to continue with the lie you started earlier, when he prevents you from it by laying his palm over your lips. Your instantly awake, at least some parts of your body are. Your lips are touching his palm! You could open them ever so slightly and your tongue would glide along the warm and rough skin of it. The thought makes it so much harder to concentrate on what he’s trying to say.  
  
When you finally manage to pull your thoughts away from all the images that are taboo, you look up at him, hoping and praying your eyes won’t give you away. At this point in your life you wouldn’t be surprised if the word ‘desire’ was written across your pupils in neon letters. But Brian is quiet and his eyes aren’t even on you. They rest unmoving on the back of his own hand that is still spread across the lower part of your face. A sudden softness overcomes his features and your heart begins to stutter, losing the rhythm completely. How you wish you weren’t only imagining the longing you could see in his eyes. How you wish your mind wasn’t still groggy from sleep so that you could hold on to the way he removes his hand – not jerking it away, but in a slow, sensual glide, his fingertips brushing caressingly across your lips. How you wish it was true instead of being a figment of your too active imagination and too sleep-deprived brain.  
  
“I’ve no idea why you were late for the movie today. Or where you were. And I know you weren’t in a café because you didn’t smell like coffee and there’s just no way you could go to a café and not order a cappuccino. I’m not asking you to tell me everything,” Brian continued, “everyone’s entitled to their secrets.” Why do you get the impression that he’s keeping secrets from you too? And, more importantly, will you remember this six hours from now or will it all seem like a dream? “But I’m asking you…” He pauses there, his posture straightening and his eyes holding yours captive. “Justin,” he says earnestly, “I’m asking you, please don’t lie to me.”  
  
You can only nod.  
  
“You promise?” he asks back and that’s when you know for sure that you’re not dreaming. He never looks as vulnerable or uncertain in your dreams as he does right now. Realization hits you – it’s not easy for him, for this new version of him, to ask this question of you. It opens up old insecurities that he’d rather forget.  
  
“I promise,” you whisper after he releases your mouth. You don’t know yet what this promise will cost you one day.  
  
He accepts your promise with a nod and sit up, leaning against the headboard. “I was nowhere,” you explain, “I was watching a street performance and got lost in time a little.”  
  
“Then why didn’t you just tell me so?”  
  
You shrug; not because you don’t know the answer but because your reasoning from before seems kind of ridiculous now. But you wager everything will, at half past four in the morning. The promise you gave him minutes ago makes you open your mouth to elaborate. “Just had to figure things out on my own first, I guess.”  
  
“What things?” he asks innocently.  
  
“Something the guy said,” you answer, brushing it away with a wave of your hand.  
  
“The guy?”  
  
The way Brian says it makes you look up and look at him. You may be misinterpreting, and, really, at this ungodly hour, you wouldn’t be surprised at all if you were, but it seems to you as though his face has grown cautious, a mix of curiosity and… could it be… fear? And your confusion is complete. You’re frustrated – by him, by yourself, by your own thoughts and your apparent inability to read Brian.  
  
So you just opt for answering his question, as honestly as you know how. “Yeah, the guy who was performing. He was playing the violin and between pieces we talked. And… I don’t know. Something he said struck a nerve, I suppose.”  
  
“Care to share?”  
  
“I can’t,” you reply, apologetically. His face falls just a little. You hurry to add, “Not because I don’t want to. I just don’t know what to say.”  
  
“Well,” he replies and moves to stand, “if you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”  
  
“I know. Thanks.”  
  
“Sorry,” he says as he’s almost out the door.  
  
“For what?”  
  
“Waking you up.”  
  
He’s gone the next second, but you lie awake, pondering the implications. What does it mean that something so minor had kept him awake the whole night and that he couldn’t wait to talk to you about it and felt the need to rouse your from your sleep to clear the air? It was hard to assess the situation objectively when logic and reason stood in direct contrast to wants and hopes. Sometimes you think that your grip on reality was firmer when you were still 17 and head over heels in love. Well, you were still head over heels in love. The only thing that’s changed is that it wasn’t returned anymore. Gosh, you hate that your mother was right: Things get more complicated the older you get.


	28. "Must be fate."

**> April 2012<**  
  
You don’t plan to ever see Ethan again. You didn’t exchange numbers or anything. When you thought that maybe you should try loving someone else – someone who isn’t Brian – you weren’t thinking about Ethan. You were thinking of a general someone. But here he is nevertheless. Ethan. Sans the violin today, but with a stack of flyers, pushing them into the hands of passing strangers. He hands one to you too, not really seeing you at all. He only looks up when you grab for the pamphlet he’s holding out for you to take; and then he doesn’t let go of it.  
  
“Justin Taylor,” he says with a smirk on his face.  
  
“Ethan, hi.”  
  
“Must be fate, huh?”  
  
You raise an eyebrow.  
  
“That’s the second time we meet in as many days. I’d say someone up there wants us to meet, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Is that a joke? You’re really not sure. Only yesterday you ponder if fate is playing tricks on you or amusing himself at your expense and today you’re discussing the very same thing with a guy who could be, potentially, someone. You decide to play along. Though whether with Ethan or with fate is yet to be determined.  
  
“What’s this?” you ask, pointing to the flyer you both are still holding on to and consciously ignoring his question.  
  
“An invitation,” he says. Then his eyes sparkle with mischief and he pulls the piece of paper from your fingers, turns his back to you and when he appears again a few seconds later, he says, “A  _personalized_  invitation,” he grins and gives you the flyer again.  
  
PIFA School of Music Philharmonic, Concert & Choir you read as you glance over the paper. Above the logo of the school, he’d written ‘Dear Justin, I’d be honored to play for you at the…’  
  
“Play for me?” you ask back, not able to contain a grin of your own.  
  
“Well, I’m part of the philharmonic. Actually, I’m the first violin,” he adds not without pride, “and, technically, I’d be playing for the entire house, but I promise you that you’d be on my mind the entire time.” It’s cheesy, and cheap, but you haven’t had enough of it lately, so you smile. “So, will you come? Please?” He makes puppy dog eyes at you and looks so hopeful. How could you say no? You glance at the date – Friday in two weeks. Why the hell not? You did resolve to actively work on changing your life, after all.  
  
“Sure, Ethan, I’d love to come,” you answer.  
  
His eyes grow wide in surprise, like he hadn’t really expected you to say yes and now he’s not looking so confident anymore. “You know it’s a date, right?” It’s funny; Brian always says the opposite. You like this version better. And Ethan looks so uncertain and yet so hopeful, you could learn to find it adorable. You think.  
  
“Yes, it’s a date,” you confirm.  
  
“Does that mean I can take you out to dinner afterwards?”  
  
In for a penny, in for a pound, right? “As long as it’s not a vegan restaurant.” Brian had hauled you to one once, when he started his weird ‘no carbs after seven’ diet.  
  
“Not vegan, I promise. So, uh…” Again the insecurity. How different Ethan was compared to Brian; it really was a study of contrasts.  
  
“What?” you ask, laughing.  
  
“I guess, uhm, that you should give me your number so I can get in touch with you?”  
  
You hesitate, not really sure why, but punch your number into his phone eventually. It’s only on your way home, hours later, that you realize: You’ve got a date. And it’s not with Brian.  
  
You’re not sure whether you’re supposed to feel happy about it or sad.


	29. "His name is Ethan."

**> April 2012<**  
  
“Sunshine, we’re going out to celebrate,” Brian calls as he walks into the apartment. You stick your head out the door of your bedroom and see him waving an envelope. It looks like a standard letter to you. He walks into your room, still waving the piece of paper, but now directly into your face.  
  
Your “What is it?” overlaps with his “What’s that?” and you glance around your room, taking in the mess it’s in for the first time.  
  
Almost all of your clothes that were once contained in the closet lay spread around or in heaps on the bed, the floor, the dresser, the chair. You’ve never dressed for a concert before; and certainly not for a date afterwards.  
  
“What are you doing?” Brian asks again.  
  
“Trying to choose an outfit.”  
  
“That’s not how you do it,” Brian replies, horrified at the way you’re treating your clothes.  
  
“What’s in the letter?” you ask, wanting to change the topic. Fortunately, it works.  
  
“It’s from Ryder. You remember, the agency I applied for a summer internship at?” he answers.  
  
Of course you remember. Part of Brian’s future plans depended on scoring the position. “You got it?” you exclaim excitedly. “No!”  
  
He grins wolfishly and holds the letter in both hands, keeping it at eye level so you can read.  
  
“Oh, my God!!!” you yell and jump him. His arms wound around you immediately and he spins you around once before letting go again. “I’m so proud of you,” you can’t help but say.  
  
“So, come on, we’re going to celebrate,” he says and your face falls. You can’t.  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“What do you mean you can’t?” He laughs, not taking you seriously. “Yes, your room is a mess, but you don’t have to clean it right now. “Here,” he says, reaching for a pale blue sweater and black slacks. “Wear this. It’ll be perfect.”  
  
You consider the outfit he’s chosen. It is perfect. He holds the clothes out for you to take but you can’t look at him. “I can’t,” you repeat. “Ialreadyhaveadate.”  
  
“What?”  
  
You sigh, breathe deeply and try again, slower this time, and more articulate, “I already have a date.”  
  
His mouth opens, closes, but he remains quiet. Eventually, a smile curves his lips until it’s a full blown grin. “Ha, ha, very funny. You got me. Now, come on. I got us a table at Le Parisien.” He grabs your arm and tries to pull you toward the body-length mirror to get you to start dressing.  
  
“Brian, I’m not joking.” You jerk your arm from his grasp, a bit peeved that he doesn’t believe you and that the idea of you actually having a date seems like such a foreign concept to him. “I do have a date. And I have to get ready or I’ll be late.”  
  
“Call and cancel,” he says matter-of-factly. And now you’re actually angry, though you try not to show it because it’s his day and you don’t want to ruin it.  
  
“I can’t. I don’t have his number.” When you gave Ethan yours, you somehow didn’t think of getting his. “We are going to celebrate your internship, alright? Tomorrow? Please?”  
  
“The table’s for tonight,” he replies and there’s such a deep sadness and disappointment in his voice, it slices right through you. Did you have Ethan’s number, now would be the time that you’d call and cancel. But maybe it’s a good thing that you don’t.  
  
“I’m sorry,” you try to cheer Brian up. “We don’t have to go to Le Parisien. We can celebrate here. Or anywhere. We can do whatever you like, okay?”  
  
Brian shrugs. You’re not sure if it means he’s accepting your offer to postpone his celebration or if he’s going to celebrate without you.  
  
“So, when’s loverboy gonna be there to pick you up?”  
  
“He’s not. I’m meeting him at his school. And his name is Ethan, by the way.”  
  
“Why his school?”  
  
“The PIFA School of Music is holding a concert tonight and he plays the violin in it.”  
  
“Music? Where exactly have you met this guy and why didn’t you tell me about it?”  
  
“I did. It’s the guy from the street; from when I was late for the movie?”  
  
Brian nods. Then he turns and leaves your room, headed for the kitchen.  
  
“Brian,” you call after him, “We’ll celebrate tomorrow, alright? Think of a place you want to go and I’ll try to make it happen, okay?”  
  
“Whatever,” you hear him mumble as his head disappears in the fridge and comes out with a bottle of beer seconds later.


	30. "How was your night?"

**> April 2012<**  
  
“I like your outfit. You should wear blue more often; it brings out your eyes,” Ethan compliments you when you are seated at the Le Parisien.  
  
“My roommate chose the outfit,” you answer, making conversation.  
  
“Well, your roommate has a great eye then.”  
  
“He has,” you agree. Among other things, but you don’t say that.  
  
Brian has been a constant presence all through tonight’s date. During the concert, especially in the moments when the ensemble performed one of the more sensual pieces, Brian’s face swam before your inner eye. You could still feel the sting of guilt because you couldn’t go out and celebrate with him. Afterwards Ethan announced the restaurant he’d chosen for dinner; it was the same Brian had reserved a table for you two at. And now he was complimenting your wardrobe which you could not take credit for since it was Brian’s suggestion to wear this.  
  
You don’t know if the universe was trying to tell you something. Were you to realize that your life was too intertwined with Brian’s? You already knew that. In fact, you made the conscious decision to let it be this way when you said you’d move in with him. Maybe you didn’t know back then what exactly the decision would entail, but you were full aware, even then, that he’d be a fixture in your life. It was never the question whether you’d allow him to become one; only the question of how long it would take this time until you couldn’t imagine a life without him.  
  
Pathetic? Not more so than trying for two and a half years to get used to his absence in your life and failing in every aspect.  
  
“Earth to Justin.”  
  
“Huh?” Your straying thoughts are brought to a halt when Ethan’s voice finds its way into your consciousness.  
  
“You seemed like miles away. Or light years.”  
  
“I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little preoccupied.” You try an apologetic smile. Hopefully it doesn’t come out a grimace.  
  
“Oh, gosh,” Ethan exclaims, all sympathetic and totally focused on only you, “did something happen? Something bad?”  
  
“No, no. Nothing happened. Sorry if I gave you the impression… No,” you say and sigh again. “It’s just that I had to blow off a friend to come here and I know that’s not fair to you or our first date, but I can’t help feeling guilty because he’s my best friend and I’m not there for him to celebrate his achievements.”  
  
Instead of being disappointed, Ethan smiles. The surprise must be written on your face because he turns a light shade of red a second later. “I probably shouldn’t be, but I’m flattered you chose me over your best friend. And I don’t mind, actually, that he’s on your mind. I actually kinda like that about you, that you’re not as self-absorbed as other people our age often are. Plus…” His voice suddenly drops a few octaves as he almost whispers, while his cheeks turn a pinker red, “…you said first date. Does that mean there’ll be a second?”  
  
Suddenly there’s this feeling of a backwards déjà-vu. You feel reminded of your first date with Brian, of how imperfectly perfect it was and how you had no idea where you were headed but were so excited to be included in the ride and ready for whatever was to come. What an interesting contrast Ethan’s date formed, where everything went according to some unwritten rules, but doesn’t feel as right. But if there is something that you learned from your experience, it’s that feelings could not be trusted. Or maybe that isn’t the whole truth. There is a limit as to how much of your future plans you can base on feelings alone. Maybe that’s the single major conclusion that distinguished an adult from a child or teenager. A heart’s desire was too fragile a thing to build an entire life on.  
  
It was like the universe was taunting you with two versions of the same evening: same clothes, same restaurant, different company. Conversation with Brian would probably come more naturally, would flow easier, but eventually his eyes would catch the ones of a waiter and you’d be left alone at the table for an undetermined amount of time. It may not be the most flattering of thoughts, but right now, Ethan’s most alluring quality is the lack of associated pain. So you put a smile on your face and are a little surprised yourself when you feel it come naturally. “I’d love a second date, Ethan.”  
  
“Tomorrow is probably too soon, huh?” he asks back.  
  
“I promised my friend I’d celebrate his good news tomorrow.”  
  
“Right,” Ethan answers and nods.  
  
“I could call you and we’ll figure something out later?” you suggest.  
  
He’s all smiles and enthusiasm for the idea and doesn’t even insist on ordering dessert first before he offers to walk you home. There’s an awkward moment in front of your building, right before you say goodbye. You know he’s thinking about kissing you and not knowing how to go about it best. And for a moment you freeze, not wanting his lips on yours, but at the same time needing to give this evening the proper conclusion. You’ve never been comfortable with kissing. No, that’s not completely true. You used to love to kiss Brian. But every attempt since then has been disastrous. Not that there have been many. Two, in total. The first guy that you kissed that wasn’t Brian was a guy from Holland. He was cute, blond and broad-shouldered, and he was backpacking through Europe also. You hiked through Austria together for a week or so. One night, after taking advantage of the fact that, at 18, you were of legal drinking age there, he leaned into you, his vodka scented breath washing over your face, and pressed his lips to yours. You would have jerked away if the alcohol hadn’t made you sluggish and slow. You didn’t participate in the kiss, all the while thinking how wrong his lips felt compared to Brian’s, how the pressure wasn’t right, the taste made you queasy – or it may have been the vodka – and after a few seconds he pulled away when he realized you weren’t responding. He apologized immediately and you parted ways the next morning. You didn’t even remember his name anymore. But the incident has stayed on your mind. The sheer wrongness of it occupied your thoughts for a long time until you decided that you had to have clarity on the matter. The next time you kissed someone you were sober and it was you who initiated the kiss. It was your first week at Dartmouth, you were still getting used to the American way of life and the various start of semester parties and Homecoming bonfire provided enough distractions and opportunity to mix and mingle. Wanting, or maybe needing it to go right this time, you picked a guy with auburn hair and brownish-green eyes. He was taller than you, though not as confident as you would have preferred him to be. But he had to do. He gazed adoringly at you when you put your hand around the back of his neck and pulled him in. You didn’t want to see his eyes – they were the right color, but not the right shape and you didn’t want to linger on that, so you closed yours. You let your lips touch his, your tongue peeking out a bit for a first taste. When that didn’t cause your heart so squeeze painfully, you grew bolder and applied a little more pressure. His mouth opened for you and you delved inside hesitantly. The moment his tongue met yours a wave of nausea hit you and you had to pull away. You couldn’t blame the alcohol this time. And you haven’t tried to repeat it ever since. You felt like a slightly twisted version of Pretty Woman when you refused to kiss the guys you hooked up with. Brian thought you were a virgin and, in the strictest sense, he was right. You fucked a few guys, though none ever since you and Brian reconnected, but you’ve never once allowed anyone to fuck you. You avoided thinking about how pathetic that was.  
  
But you are forced to consider it now. Maybe not the fucking part, but definitely the kissing part. You don’t want a goodnight kiss from Ethan to taint the entire evening. Before you can make up your mind about how to turn him down, he’s there, in your space. You’re breathing the same air and you’re strangely okay with that. His lips are so close and you can’t stop staring at them, even though it makes you go cross-eyed. You don’t want this. But then he smiles and suddenly there’s contact and… it’s alright. There’s no fireworks and you don’t hear trombones or a marching band, but you don’t feel like puking either. It’s quick and chaste and dry and your face splits into an honest smile when you part. You guess that’s progress.  
  
You say goodnight after that and go upstairs, but the smile stays on your face.  
  
“I take it your date went well?” Brian drawls when you get inside, still wearing the smile. He’s sounding sour, but it may be the alcohol in his voice.  
  
“It was okay,” you confirm. “How was your night?” You’re determined to not let him bring you down. You’ve had an enjoyable evening and for the first time in almost 3 years you feel like you’re moving forward.  
  
“Eventful,” he answers and you understand it to mean that he wasn’t alone. And just like that your elation is gone.  
  
“Is he still there?” you ask, your tone distant, though you try not to show it. Your living together is founded on your assurance that you wouldn’t mind his tricks. You couldn’t go and change the rules of the game all of a sudden. Or could you?  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Whoever it was that kept you company tonight.”  
  
“No, they’re gone.”  _They_. Of course.  
  
“Have you thought about where you want to go tomorrow to celebrate?” you try to change the topic.  
  
“Woody’s,” he replies.  
  
“Woody’s? I thought you’d want to do something special.”  
  
“I did.” His voice is quiet and your guilt is back. He means the Le Parisien reservation.  
  
“The portions are small, the food tastes like cardboard, and the waiters are ugly. You wouldn’t have liked it,” you say, attempting a light tone.  
  
“So, loverboy took you out to Le Parisien?” Brian whistles. And you smile a little; it sounds like he’s willing to let go of the earlier almost fight. “Classy.”  
  
You decide not to get involved in any sort of discussion this late in the night and opt instead for bed. “Goodnight, Brian,” you say softly as you close your bedroom door behind you.


	31. "You smell sinful."

**> April 2012<**  
  
You wake up next morning to a warm body beside you. Convinced, it’s just a dream, you hold off opening your eyes, preferring to indulge in the pleasant dream for a while longer. You even debate inching closer, wondering if your mind will integrate the action into your dream or if it will dispel the magic of the moment. The desire wins out and you reach out with an arm, surprised at the solid feel of a muscled chest beneath your palm. Way too solid. You finally open your eyes and find yourself face to face with Brian.  
  
He’s watching you, lying on his side, propped up on one elbow. You know you should pull your hand away, but he’s not protesting and you decide to act as though you’d forgotten that it’s there.  
  
The last time you woke up with someone beside you, you were 18 and the someone in your bed had been Brian. It was during one of the nights where he’d come over to your house after a run-in with his dad and your mother suggested he spend the night. He was supposed to sleep on the pull-out, just like every other time when he stayed over. It was towards the end of the school year, and towards the end of the relationship which, of course, you didn’t know back then. You’d always go to sleep in separate beds, but it had started to happen more often that one of you woke up in the middle of the night and crawled under the blanket of the other one. It was the time when simple kisses had started not being enough anymore, but before any of you could find the courage to initiate more.  
  
It was just another thing, on top of many, that you regretted not having been more forward about.  
  
“What are you doing in my bed?” you mumble, cringing when you taste the foul remnants of last night in your mouth.  
  
“Giving you the opportunity to make up for bailing on me last night,” he replies with a smirk.  
  
The images come instantly; all the things you could do to him and for him that would constitute as an apology or a making up. You’re pretty sure that’s not what he meant at all and you should be used to his double entendres by now, but you’re not and those images have an effect on you you’d rather not have with Brian in the same room as you, much less in the same bed.  
  
You pull your hand abruptly away from his chest as if it’s a direct connection into your brain and you’re so focused on keeping your breathing at a normal pace to pay much attention to his disappointed look.  
  
“How?” you croak and hope he’ll attribute your voice to the early morning hour.  
  
“You don’t have to work today, right?”  
  
You nod.  
  
“Great. Then you’ll spend the day with me. First you’re gonna take me out to breakfast. Alternatively, I can be persuaded to a home-made breakfast, but you’ll have to offer me more than just cereal and toast. Next,” he continues, “you’ll go to the gym with me and will not ask me every 20 minutes if we can leave already. Lunch I will graciously leave up to you to decide on. And in the evening we’ll go out and celebrate properly what we were supposed to celebrate yesterday.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Your instructions are oddly specific. I suppose you have the evening planned out as well?”  
  
“Woody’s.”  
  
You were hoping that he would have come up with something else overnight. “Still Woody’s? Seriously? We go there like every other day.”  
  
“You didn’t let me finish,” he reprimands. “First we’ll meet the guys at Woody’s and later I wanna go somewhere where I can dance with you.”  
  
Which is just another expression for Babylon, as you well know. On a normal day you’d protest Babylon on principle and dancing with Brian for the sake of your sanity. But he looks so pleased and excited at the prospect, you don’t have it in you to disappoint him for a second time in succession.  
  
“Guys?” you ask instead. “Who did you invite?”  
  
“Whom,” he corrects and you roll his eyes. He ignores it and explains, “Ted, the guy from my accounting class,” he counts off on his fingers, “Michael will be there too and he’s bringing his new roommate, Elliot or Emmett or something like that. And Linds said she’s got a surprise, so be prepared to meet yet another lezzie she’s deeply, utterly, completely, madly in love with.”  
  
You nod and yawn into your pillow. Brian flops around, so he comes to rest lying diagonally on the bed, and lays his head just below your ribcage. After a few moments where you don’t move, he wriggles his head impatiently and you sink your fingers in his hair and start massaging his scalp. You do that for him occasionally, mostly when he’s having a headache or has trouble concentrating on schoolwork. He claims your fingers have magic healing powers and head massages have become an established currency between you two.  
  
His hair feels heavenly, thick, soft, and free of any product. You wish you could enjoy it more, but all you can think about is that he’s mere inches away from your morning woody. Your fingers on his skin and his content guttural moans really don’t help matters.  
  
He turns his head to the side, making the back of his neck accessible for the massage also, and buries his nose in the t-shirt you slept in. Is it just your impression or is he particularly touchy-feely this morning? You wish your body wasn’t pumping all of its blood to your nether regions. Maybe then you’d have the possibility to figure it out.  
  
“Hmm,” he purrs and, goddamn, the sound goes straight South, “you smell like a dirty dream.”  
  
You laugh. “Well, I haven’t had my shower yet,” you remind him.  
  
“No, I mean, you smell like you’ve been… naughty. You smell sinful.”  
  
“Well, you’d know all about it,” you mutter.  
  
He tenses instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, voice cold.  
  
Fuck! “Nothing,” you say, a little desperately. “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking.” A deep breath. “Another try?”  
  
He looks doubtful for a few seconds, then relaxes and lies back again. You resume the massage and suggest after a few seconds, “My mother’s pancakes?”  
  
“Hmm,” he moans as he remembers breakfasts at your house. “It’s been a while since someone made me pancakes.”  
  
“Great,” you say, “pancakes it is then. But first – I need a shower.”  
  
“Hurry,” he calls after you. “Remember, it’s my day and every minute you’re not tending to my needs will be added to your service time.”  
  
You laugh as you disappear in the shower.


	32. "Tonight is an exception."

**> April 2012<**  
  
As is wont to a celebration, you all drink a lot. You don’t usually drink hard alcohol. It’s not because of a real reason; or because you can’t hold it. For someone who’s only an occasional drinker you can hold your liquor quite well. You just don’t get too many opportunities to do so. Tonight is an exception. After the slip up this morning, the rest of the day went surprisingly well. It’s been some time since you and Brian had this much fun together. You felt so relaxed around him again and you’ve laughed so much, it felt like the old times. It seemed like you’ve been touching all the time today and you refused to think about what it could mean. You just allowed yourself to enjoy it. As you were getting dressed in your respective party outfits for the evening, you teased each other and, for the first time in six months you thought that, maybe, you could do this friendship thing.  
  
But now it is hours later and you’ve moved on from Woody’s to Babylon where the drinks are smaller but more expensive but which you don’t care for because you decide to get plastered. The alcohol helps dilute the anger that has started to boil in your gut some couple hours ago.  
  
You know you’re being unreasonable and selfish, but you can’t help it. Ever since you stepped inside Woody’s, Brian has been different. He ignored you for the most part and you could have dealt with that if it was only the fact that you two weren’t alone anymore and there were other friends present that needed attention as well. But that wasn’t it. Lindsay was there with her new lezzie lover, a tomboy looking girl named Melanie. And Michael hadn’t come alone either. In addition to Emmett, his new roommate who has been flirting with you ever since Michael introduced you all, he brought his new boyfriend as well and Brian has been a total asshole to him the entire evening. He was sharp-tongued and never left out an opportunity to make a biting remark about love, relationships, and everything else even remotely connected to the topic. He has been acting like a complete asshole and you are so tired of it. The others don’t seem to care. They just roll his eyes and ignore Brian, but you can’t help but take every one of his comments personally. Brian knows, because you never kept it from him, that you do believe in the one true love, in relationships, and monogamy, and a happily ever after. You don’t necessarily think that you should have it right now, at twenty-something, but you do subscribe to the idea in general. And maybe you are over-interpreting, maybe Brian doesn’t mean anything by it and doesn’t even realize that he’s hurting Michael and Lindsay and their respective new boy- and girlfriend. But that’s not the point.  
  
The point is that you can’t believe how much Brian’s changed. In moments like these it is hard to remember that it’s all just a show; that you know Brian better than that. You’re just so damn angry that he seems to be so ashamed for the person he once was that he thinks he needs to replace him by this asshole who doesn’t care for the feelings of others at all. And worst of all – they let him. And you just can’t watch any longer. But after blowing him off last night, you don’t dare leaving.  
  
So you ignore Brian too. And instead you dance with Emmett, who’s really the best dancer in your little group, and accept drinks from him, both of you knowing that it doesn’t mean anything more than just that – a drink between strangers who are quickly becoming good friends. And you allow yourself to get lost in the music.  
  
For a few songs, Brian joins you and Emmett motions that he’s going to leave you two alone, but you beckon him to stay and, for a while, all three of you are dancing together. You’re not far from the bar and Brian keeps downing drinks like there’s no tomorrow. His hands begin to stray, one of them landing on your ass, directing your hips to move in tune with his. You endure it for ten seconds or so before you gently slip from his grip and continue to dance without body contact. You know that it’s just a dance for Brian, something that he won’t think much of, but it’s dangerous. It is difficult to keep your hands to yourself on a normal day, and tonight, with the alcohol clouding your judgment, it’s downright impossible. So before you do something you’ll have to explain in the morning, you discontinue the action before your will crumbles to dust.  
  
Brian’s reaction to your slight adjustment of the dancing stance is immediate. His eyes flicker and he grabs for the next best guy, pulling him in by a hand fisting his waistband. Brian pushes his tongue deep into the surprised, but not displeased, guy’s throat, turns to grin at you and Emmett and disappears, guy in tow, behind the chain curtain that leads to the backroom. You watch him go, biting your tongue against the tears prickling in your eyes and your rhythm falters for a moment. And then Emmett is there, his arm winding around your shoulders and subtly turning you away from the backroom entrance.  
  
“Oh, baby,” Emmett screams in your ear, the music almost drowning out his voice, “why do good guys like you always fall for assholes like him?”  
  
You consider pretending like you haven’t heard him. It’d be easy, the thumping bass is a good enough excuse. But then Emmett pulls away slightly and yells, “It’s okay. It’s not obvious or anything. And I promise I won’t tell anyone.”  
  
He smiles and you believe him.  
  
“He hasn’t always been an asshole,” you find yourself replying when he pulls you closer again, dancing cheek to cheek. Damn alcohol. You don’t yell it and are pretty sure Emmett hasn’t heard, for which you are grateful.  
  
But he stops dancing and looks you in the eyes when he asks, surprised, “You two have history?”  
  
You nod. It’s the damn alcohol again, you’re certain of it.  
  
“Oh, boy. Poor baby. I only know one remedy against that,” he says.  
  
When you ask him what it is, he performs a perfectly executed pirouette and declares, “More dancing, naturally.” When you grin, he pulls out a little plastic bag from his tangerine colored pants and adds, “And the best E you can buy in this ‘burgh.” He laughs and you have to join in.  
  
You share a tab, and the taste brings memories back as it dissolves under your tongue. Your first year back in the States, you tried all kinds of different drugs. You didn’t care much for hard drugs, though you did try some of them. But you used to like ecstasy and how it made music sound better, how it made everything seem so much  _more_  of everything, and how it heightened every physical sensation. You continue to dance and feel a mild wave of euphoria the minute the tab starts working. You sigh contently. Just what you needed right now. Brian is almost forgotten as you and Emmett sway to the beat of the thumpa-thumpa.  
  
That is until you look up in the very same moment when he emerges from the backroom. He looks well-fucked and you are dimly aware that it’s the drug that makes him seem so much more beautiful than he usually is. When he spots you, you want to wave him over, but your thumb gets stuck in the belt loop of Emmett’s pants, so you just nod at him. The motion of your chin against Emmett’s arms that he still has around your neck, alerts your dance partner to the presence of Brian and he turns his head to nod towards him too.  
  
Brian, instead of joining you again, stops dead in his tracks for a moment, then changes direction abruptly and goes straight for the bar. You watch as he downs three shot in quick succession, then turns and leans against the counter with both elbows, surveying the people on the dance floor, but completely avoiding making eye contact with you. His eyes stop roaming and you follow his gaze to see whom they’ve landed on. He’s fixing a tall redhead with his stare and it takes a few seconds for the redhead to notice. You know exactly the moment when he does because his eyes grow slightly wider and an expression of hunger distorts his features. You glance back at Brian in time to spot him jerking his head towards the backroom. The invitation is quickly followed by the redhead who disengages from his dance partner and disappears in the darkly lit doorway.  
  
Brian grins wolfishly and pushes away from the bar to follow. When he passes you, there’s a look on his face you can’t read. It slashes your heart and not even the E has the power to dampen the pain of the cut.  
  
You mumble an apology to Emmett and leave, after declining his offer of taking you home.  
  
Once inside in your apartment, you pull out your phone and call Ethan. It’s not the nicest of your moves, but you’ll care about that tomorrow; when you’re sober.


	33. "Half-dead and hung-over."

**> April 2012<**  
  
It’s Sunday. You remember that much. The rest is kinda blurry. Your phone beeps and you groan as the sound reaches your ears. You grab blindly for it, wincing more when you smash something to the floor in your clumsy attempt to reach to beeping device. Finally you get your hands on the phone and flip it open. You release an indescribable sound when the harsh light of the screen hits your eyes. Fuck! You try one eye first, then the next before you can properly look at the display and navigate through the menu to read your incoming message.  
  
 _Looking forward to our date next Friday. Wanna meet up for a coffee before that? <3 E._  
  
What date? You don’t have the slightest idea what date Ethan is talking about. You’re actually pretty proud of yourself for figuring out that the message is from Ethan. It seems like a colossal accomplishment on this morning. Deciding to leave the detective work for later, you stumble out of bed and into the bathroom. It’s not muggy which means that Brian hasn’t showered yet, but right now you don’t care. You get in, turn the water on hot and wait for it to clear some of the fog.  
  
Brian…  
  
Fuck!  
  
The memories are there instantly. They slam into your head, not having the decency to come quietly, and you see flashes of last night. The first drink, the last, and the many, many repeats in between. You remember Emmett and dancing and the E. And you remember Brian’s tricks. Oh, God, you groan, Emmett knows. You don’t know how or why, but he does. In addition to feeling half-dead and hung-over, you now feel embarrassed as well. But he promised not to tell anyone, you remember that too. And you hope that your judgment wasn’t off last night when you believed him.  
  
Maybe it’ll turn out to be a good thing. You need someone to talk about Brian to. Someone who knows what’s up and who won’t be able to guess what’s going on when you start talking about ‘a friend’ who’s in love with his best friend.  
  
And most urgent of all, you have to come up with a plan how to be, or at least act, unaffected by Brian’s tricking. You’re afraid if Emmett was able to see it, that others will too and eventually Brian will know and you can’t risk your friendship. Not for this. Not because you don’t know how to keep your feelings in check.  
  
You let the water pour down on you, and decide,  _after_  the shower, is still enough time to start dealing with that as your hand inches towards your hard member. Images of last night are still playing on your mind and you focus on the ones with Brian in them. Brian and his hand on your ass. Brian’s hips grinding into yours. Brian’s smoldering gaze as he looked at you during the short seconds when you danced together like that. Brian’s eyes, Brian’s mouth, Brian’s tongue, Brian’s hands, Brian’s… You come with a groan, thankful for the shower drowning out your release.  
  
You’re almost completely back in the land of the living and halfway through your breakfast when Brian’s bedroom door opens. The floor plan of the apartment requires anyone who’s intent on leaving to pass through the corridor into which the kitchen opens, so you can’t help but see the trick trying to slip out. He stops in his tracks when he spots you, his whole posture changing immediately.  
  
You can’t believe Brian brought someone back home. Hasn’t he had enough at Babylon already? Jeez. You’re about to point the lost guy in the direction of the door, when he speaks.  
  
“Hi,” he drawls the greeting and accompanies it with a blinding smile. “You must be the roommate. But you’re not sleeping.”  
  
“Huh?” you reply.  
  
The guy points a finger over his shoulder, back in the direction of Brian’s bedroom. “He told me to be quiet and that he’d cut off my dick if I did something to wake you up. But you’re already awake.”  
  
You don’t answer. To be fair, he hasn’t asked a question. Though you do wonder why he keeps smiling like that. It’s unnerving. Though somehow pleasant. In a weird, unexpected way.  
  
“Hi,” he says again and extends his arm this time. “We haven’t been introduced. My name is Troy.”  
  
Perplexed and a little taken by surprise, you shake his hand. “Justin.” It’s a reflex, born of politeness.  
  
Brian, probably having heard voices, sticks his head out of his room. “I told you—” he begins in a hiss, but has to stop when he gauges the situation.  
  
Troy meanwhile ignores him completely, his eyes exclusively on you. “Justin,” he repeats your name. His smile increases in voltage and you notice for the first time that it’s kinda nice. He’s cute, in that hot, outdoorsy way. And he’s completely and totally interested in you. The realization is weird and flattering at the same time. Because Brian is only a few feet away, watching you both with sleep-soaked eyes and despite his mussed hair and pillow creases on his cheek, he looks like a vision. And this guy, Troy, he doesn’t even care. “What do you like doing, Justin?” he asks.  
  
Behind him, Brian blinks slowly, trying to understand what’s going on.  
  
“Do you like going out? Movies?” You just shrug indifferently, the situation still too awkward. But Troy continues, “What about the gym? Do you hang out there sometimes?” You smile, more at his efforts than his suggestions, but he takes it anyway and looks triumphant, like he’s accomplished something big. “Oh, I know. Dancing.”  
  
“Justin doesn’t like to dance,” Brian remarks and his voice is icy. You can’t help but look up at him, surprised. You do like dancing, but you’re not sure if Brian really doesn’t know or if it’s a comment on last night, when you turned his drunken advances down.  
  
Troy doesn’t miss a beat and says, as he continues to gaze at you, “I can’t believe that.” He glances you up and down, his eyes lingering here and there and you suddenly realize that you’re not wearing anything aside from a worn pair of cotton shorts. You feel extremely self-conscious all of a sudden. Troy doesn’t seem to notice. “Would you like to go dancing with me some time?” he asks.  
  
Before you can come up with an answer, Brian steps in. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Trip.” He looks threatening, but Troy doesn’t notice because he’s still not turning around, even when he corrects Brian.  
  
“Troy,” he curtly replies, unfazed and not breaking eye contact with you. “Do you hang out at Babylon sometimes?”  
  
“Not usually,” you answer.  
  
“That’s too bad,” Troy says and licks his lips unconsciously.  
  
You really don’t know what’s gotten into you when you reply, “But maybe I’ll start now.” Brian’s head whips around so fast, you’re surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. He looks scandalized, mouth agape.  
  
“Then I’ll be hoping I’ll run into you one day,” Troy answers with a suggestive grin, oblivious to Brian’s reaction. Even though his statement sounds like a farewell, he doesn’t move a limb to leave. “You’ve got the most kissable lips. Did anyone ever tell you that?” he asks instead. You grin into your cereal and feel yourself turn scarlet.  
  
Brian keeps glancing back and forth between you two, a wild look on his face. Eventually he grabs Troy’s arm, and not too gently drags him to the door. Troy grabs the doorframe as he’s being dragged away and sends you one last cheeky grin. The next moment you hear the door slam.  
  
“What the fuck, Justin?” Brian explodes even before he’s physically back in the kitchen.  
  
“What?” you try to act innocent. You are, actually, innocent, you remind yourself.  
  
“What was that all about?” he presses out between tightly clenched lips.  
  
“What was what all about?” you repeat after him. “He asked me if we could hook up. You were there and heard him. How is any of it my fault? I didn’t tell him to ask me, if that’s what you’re implying.”  
  
“He could have…” Brian starts, stops, and tries again, “You can’t… Justin, you don’t even know this guy.”  
  
“And you do?” you return in disbelief.  
  
He doesn’t answer that. He tries another tactic. “Since when are you this… callous about tricking? You never were much for casual sex before.”  
  
“I wasn’t aware that I am now.”  
  
“Then what would you call it?” Brian asks rhetorically. “You went on a date with that Ian guy.”  
  
“Ethan.”  
  
He ignores your input and continues, “Then it’s Elliot.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The guy from last night. Michael’s friend.”  
  
You roll your eyes. “Emmett,” you correct him.  
  
“Whatever. And now you’ve got your eyes set on Trip.”  
  
“Troy,” you add in a bored tone. You don’t even know why Brian pretends not to know their names. He’s got a fantastic face-name-memory. “And I’m not fucking any of them. I’m probably never going to see Troy again. Emmett is just a good friend and I’m dating Ethan.”  
  
Maybe you’re imagining it but Brian seems to calm down a little; or maybe ‘freezes’ would be a more appropriate term. “You’re still dating him?”  
  
Apparently so. You checked your phone after the shower. You’d asked Ethan out on a date late last night. You don’t know what to think about that. You did tell him that you were looking forward to another date. But now you weren’t so sure anymore. Ethan was nice and everything and he had the advantage that he didn’t remind you of Brian, at all. But you are somewhat convinced that it’s going anywhere. You sigh deeply and tell Brian that. “I agreed to another date,” you say. “Actually, I asked him out this time. But I’m probably going to tell him that I don’t want to continue this thing.”  
  
“You are?” Brian sounds so surprised, it’s almost comical.  
  
“Yeah. He’s just… not my type,” you decide on.  
  
“Okay,” Brian says carefully. “Probably better to end it now then, before he gets too involved.”  
  
“Yeah,” you say and nod. And you’re back to square one.


	34. "That feeling of lightheartedness."

**> May 2012<**  
  
It’s the last week of classes and that’s one of the reasons why you’re actually looking forward to your date with Ethan. You’re not only going on a date, you’re going to celebrate a finished year of Carnegie Mellon. You’ve got the summer stretched out before you with nothing to do but bus tables at the diner and work on projects for a few summer classes that you’re taking. Being free feels amazing.  
  
It may be that feeling of lightheartedness that adds a giddy touch to your evening with Ethan. In a last minute inspiration you decide to get a pre-packed picnic basket and eat outside. You enjoy the last rays of sunshine on a bench in the park, but are forced to huddle together once the sun disappears behind the horizon. It’s May and evenings still tend to get crisp in Pittsburgh this time of year. Your apartment is closer and you offer a cup of coffee to get warm, so you head home. You’re feeling so easy and carefree, you don’t want to have the talk with Ethan right now. Later you’ll think it’s this carefree recklessness that drives you to kiss him and press him against the fridge as you plunder his mouth. From here on in hormones take over and drive you into your bedroom where both of you quickly lose all clothes and fall, quite ungracefully, into your bed. The sex is hurried and little refined, but Ethan seems to like it enough when you pound into him. His moaning increases in volume with every press of your hips and the longer it takes, the more concerned you grow about Brian returning home early – he’s out celebrating the end of the semester the only way he knows how – and hearing you.  
  
Minutes later everything is over and you collapse on top of Ethan, and, after a perfunctory cleaning up courtesy of a previously discarded t-shirt, fall asleep a short while after that, blissfully undetected.  
  
You wouldn’t have slept as soundly as you did had you known what shitstorm was about to break lose the very next day.


	35. "What just happened?"

**> May 2012<**  
  
Breathing is difficult, you feel stifled, and your head pounds a little, like you’ve been out partying and drinking. But you didn’t do either, that’s why it takes a while till you comprehend what’s going on. The first clue is the body currently half-spread across your chest which explains the trouble breathing. Then you remember the bottle of fairly cheap red wine that was part of your picnic basket that you hold responsible for the dull thudding behind your forehead. It’s really not that bad though; nothing one of Brian’s strong coffees wouldn’t cure. You roll carefully until Ethan slides off and you can slip out of the bed and steal out of the room. You don’t pause to look for your underwear, but you do remember to grab your bathrobe from the hanger on the door. Covering your nakedness, you pull the door behind you closed as quietly as possible and glance down the corridor to Brian’s door. It’s closed which is unfortunate because it means that he’s home. Just once you would have preferred it if he’d gone home with one of his tricks for a change and given you the opportunity to sneak Ethan out without giving too much cause for discussions about morality and honesty and all that other shit you don’t want to hear about at… you glance at the digital clock on the microwave… 8.30 in the morning.  
  
Your movements as you go about preparing the coffee are mechanical, though you do try to be as quiet as possible. Chances are pretty slim that you can manage to get Ethan out of the apartment without Brian noticing. So that’s not the reason why you are being quiet. You need time to think. Last night’s move was so not one of your most brilliant. You were supposed to break things off with Ethan before either of you got in too deep or before things could go too far. You’ve now officially entered ‘too far’ land. God, what are you going to tell him that will not make you sound like the biggest asshole on the planet? ‘Thanks for last night, but I’m really not interested in pursuing this further’? ‘Last night was great. Let’s never repeat it so it remains something special.’ Ha fucking ha. So not funny. How does Brian do it? You wish you could have just a little of his streak of ruthlessness. But, you guess, the difference is that he never goes out with his conquests before fucking them, never bothers to learn their names.  
  
The machine beeps discreetly when it’s finished grinding the beans and heating the water, so you put two cups under the spout, knowing the smell of the coffee won’t keep Brian in his room for long. He appears right as you are putting the sugar bowl on the counter. While he empties half its contents into his cup, he smiles gratefully at you but you know that all of his attention is on his coffee.  
  
“Hard night?” you ask after he’s slightly more awake.  
  
“Something was hard,” Brian replies with a wink. You’ve run straight into that; you can’t blame anyone else.  
  
“Actually,” you say, “I meant it as an introduction to ask you what your plans for today were.” You’re stalling, you know that. But you can’t help it. You’re so not ready for this other talk yet that awaits you back in your room.  
  
Besides, it’s Brian’s last entirely free weekend since he starts work at Ryder’s on Monday. It’s just an internship, but you know Brian and how he’s always pushing himself to be the best. He’s probably going to spend all of his free time reading up on stuff the college hasn’t taught him yet, but which he wants or needs to know about to be able to give his best.  
  
Brian thinks about your question for a moment. “There’s an ethnic festival over in Ambridge, with food from all over the world and I believe there’s an arts section too.”  
  
You’re confused and your face shows it. “That’s the sort of thing I would enjoy,” you slowly reply.  
  
“They’ve got live entertainment as well,” he returns and you’re not sure if it’s an argument for him or for you.  
  
“And you want to go?” you ask to make sure you’re on the same page.  
  
“Sure. Sounds like it could be fun.”  
  
“Why though?” you can’t help but ask. It sounds like he’s trying to do something with and for you, but why? “You used to hate to go to these things. You said the most boring thing you ever experienced was watching me look at art.”  
  
“Yes,” Brian agrees. “Because whenever we went to a museum together, you spent ages, aaaages, Justin, staring at the exhibits. And we had to behave. And I couldn’t jump your bones whenever I wanted.”  
  
Brian falls silent and you too feel heat rise to your cheeks, the memories of several hot making out sessions very fresh on your mind. There aren’t going to be any today though and you school your features to not show the regret you feel.  
  
Brian clears his throat to break the suddenly awkward moment. “That reminds me,” he exclaims, “How did the talk last night go? Was Ian very disappointed?”  
  
He’s making fun of you, and Ethan, and normally you’d tell him to stop. But instead you blush furiously and avoid Brian’s eyes. “Uhm,” you start, not knowing how to continue. “It went differently as expected.”  
  
“Yeah?” Brian returns, only mildly interested. “He didn’t cry, did he? Oh, God, he did,” he concludes when you remain silent. Then he rolls his eyes. “Tears are just emotional blackmail, remember.”  
  
You loathe these moments, when Brian says something that makes you hate him a little. The feeling’s never there for long; it is usually quickly replaced by pity which, you’re certain, he’d hate even more if he knew. To Brian, tears are a weakness and you sometimes wonder if he really believes it. He told you once, not too long ago, that he hasn’t cried in almost four years. Later, you did the math and came to the conclusion that it must have been the day he dry-sobbed in your car, after being kicked off the soccer team. He’s changed so much since. He believes he’s tougher now, but it’s such a lie. The only thing he’s accomplished is hiding his feelings better and you’re not sure who’s supposed to profit from that.  
  
Before you can think of a way to continue this conversation, Ethan stumbles into the kitchen, one hand rubbing his face and the other making a mess of his already mussed up hair. Your heart drops and an ice cold chill runs down your spine. You’ve never before tasted the bitterness of a deeply felt regret. Now you know what it’s like. Ethan was a mistake. In more ways than one. But, okay, you can do this. You have no idea how; you never had to end something with someone before, and you’ll probably have to endure quite a bit of Brian’s ridicule, but at least it’ll be over then. As this thought strikes you, you can actually relax a little. You haven’t realized before how hard you’d pushed yourself into this and only now do you see that a relationship with Ethan, or anyone who isn’t Brian, for that matter, is not what you want. You’re not ready for it yet.  
  
As awkward as you feel, standing between your best friend, a.k.a. love of your life, and Ethan, your… well, Ethan, your head’s still not too busy to spare a thought as to how relieved you are that he at least had the presence of mind to pull on some underwear.  
  
Brian, though clearly not amused, is certainly curious. He pulls up an eyebrow in that perfected Kinney fashion and lets a smirk play around his lips as he asks, dragging, almost sing-songing, the question, “And who do we have here?”  
  
You wish you could come up with a good argument, something that would explain why Ethan’s here, this time of day, and you want to groan at your own negligence, but you’re also ready to face the consequences of your actions. It doesn’t prevent every muscle in your body from tensing, though, as you make the introductions, “Brian, this is Ethan. Ethan, my roommate Brian.”  
  
Then you wait. And it’s so quiet, you’re aware of every breath you take. You avoid both their eyes and instead choose to stare at the linoleum, willing it to open up and swallow you. Right the fuck now, please. But nothing happens. Actually, the void of nothing is what makes you look up again. It’s  _too_  quiet in the room. A quick glance at Ethan explains why he’s being silent. His cheeks are beet red and he’s so embarrassed, he can barely hold his head up. Brian on the other hand… seethes? You were looking at him from the corner of your eyes, but now you turn around properly and look, or rather stare, at him, completely taken by surprise by his reaction. His whole body is taut, he appears to loom over you, looking threatening and scary as hell. But it’s the lack of an expression on his face coupled with the fire in his eyes which he can’t control as well as his body that really throws you. You never expected such a strong reaction, much less do you have an explanation for it.  
  
“Uhmm, hi?” Ethan eventually finds his voice, his nervousness turning the greeting into a question. He reaches out tentatively, offering his hand for a shake, but Brian just glowers and, for the briefest moment, you have the image of a wild animal prancing on his prey. Brian’s menacing stance unsettles Ethan’s already shaky determination and he instinctively inches closer to you, seeking shelter. The motion only serves to tackle Brian’s hunting spirit. He releases an involuntary growl, something that comes from the farthest depths of his throat and is so low, you feel its vibrations more than hear the sound of it. It doesn’t do anything to make you hang onto the illusion that all of you are going to come out of it unscathed.  
  
But because you have no idea why Brian is acting the way he is, you have no idea how to diffuse the situation. Trying for levity, you offer Ethan a seat and put a mug of coffee in front of him, unasked. The entire time Brian’s eyes keep track of every single movement Ethan makes. You know, because you keep watching Brian.  
  
You sit in between Brian and Ethan, though slightly closer to the latter because you feel like he can use the meager protection you can offer. Ethan has questions in his eyes and he’s trying to act like he’s not afraid of Brian, but he keeps looking at you for help and you are so hopelessly out of your depth.  
  
After a few sips from his coffee, Ethan lowers his still almost full cup and says, uncertainly, “I think I gotta go.” He doesn’t give a reason and he doesn’t have to.  
  
When Ethan stands up to go back to your room, you hesitate for a moment, looking back at Brian. He’s still not moving, but instead of fixing Ethan with a death stare, he’s now directing his murderous look at the microwave above the fridge. You give him a second longer to explain himself, to say something, to react in any way. He doesn’t and you leave the kitchen, following Ethan who’s disappeared behind your door.  
  
When you enter your room, Ethan’s already dressed. He’s missing a shoe though which explains his position; he’s on all fours, his head under your bed. A moment later he reemerges with his missing boot and sits down at the edge of the bed to pull it on while you shift your weight from one foot to the other barely inside the door.  
  
You make sure the door is closed when you try for an apology, “I’m so sorry, Ethan. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I guess the only guests Brian is used to are the ones who find the exit on their own, preferably within a timeframe of five minutes after coitus.”  
  
“Really?” Ethan asks back.  
  
“Yeah, he’s kind of a… hit with gays.” You were about to say ‘slut’.  
  
“Oh, no, that I have no problem believing. I mean,” Ethan adds, “he’s fucking gorgeous.”  
  
You nod. That’s part of the problem. “And he’s an ass about it too. I’m really sorry,” you try again.  
  
“You don’t have to make amends for him,” Ethan replies and then says the strangest thing, “I’d act the same if i was in his shoes.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“If I was about to lose you, to him, I’d go crazy on his ass too. Only, I’d probably seem much less threatening or intimidating doing it.” Ethan laughs at his own joke, but you can’t. What he’s saying makes no sense whatsoever and you so can’t have this discussion right now, not with your brain firing all kinds of hormones through your body, mostly adrenaline though. You’re still so confused, and so angry, you wouldn’t be able to explain properly why Ethan has got the situation all wrong. Whatever he thinks he’s picked up on are the remnants of your past. You’ll explain it to him some other time.  
  
So you leave it at a, “You’re wrong.”  
  
Ethan’s not to be deterred though. “Really? If I’m wrong, then why did he look as though he was about to stick his tongue in your throat and mark his territory, right in front of me.”  
  
“No,” you wave his comment aside. “You just don’t know Brian. That’s just his way. He’s… He doesn’t…” You breathe deep, not knowing how to continue.  _So_  not the right time.  
  
Ethan meanwhile has finished tying his shoe and is ready to leave. “Whatever you say,” he replies as you follow him to the door. Brian’s still in the kitchen and the open floor plan makes you feel like there’s a spotlight on you when you say goodbye to Ethan. You try to ignore Brian as best as you can while feeling his stare on your back like prickling needles all the while.  
  
“Can I call you later?” Ethan asks and leans in to peck your cheek. You’re too confused, too surprised, too something to say no. So you just nod. He leaves and you realize you still haven’t had the talk with him. You sigh. First things first.  
  
  
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you tear into Brian the minute you’re alone again.  
  
“What is wrong with  _me_?” he asks back, eyes blown wide. “No, Brian, he’s not my type,” Brian mocks you with a higher pitched voice, making such a bad impression of yourself, it would be funny any other day. “I’m going to tell him that I don’t want to continue this thing.”  
  
“Stop it, okay?” you spit out. “I know what I said.”  
  
“Yeah, you say a lot of things that you don’t mean.” It’s mumbled, but you hear it anyway and you think that maybe he wanted you to.  
  
It’s a testament to the unfinished business between you that you know immediately, without even a moment of doubt or wonder, what it is that he refers to. But you can’t deal with it right now. You can’t have guilt piled on top of what you’re already feeling – anger, frustration, and above it all a solid layer of not understanding what the fuck he’s so riled up about.  
  
So you do the only thing you can think of. You lash out. “What is it any fucking business of yours whom I fuck?”  
  
His face blanches. “You two fucked?” The voice sounds neutral, but underneath you feel it simmering.  
  
“What the fuck did you think we did?”  
  
He shakes his head and looks to the ceiling as he releases a mirthless laugh. “Oh, my god,” he says without any intonation, “has anything of what you ever said to me been true? What happened to waiting for the right guy? To wanting to be in love when it happens?”  
  
You don’t take the time to explain to him that what you meant back then was bottoming. If Brian wants to believe that Ethan was your first, so be it. You would let him believe a lot of shit right now. “Did you think I’d let you lecture me about moral behavior?” you exclaim. “You of all people?!”  
  
Brian stares at you, eyes hard and cold. “You know what, you’re right. It is none of my business. Your life is your life and nobody else’s; why would it ever involve me? Why would it ever matter what I think about how you decide to live it?”  
  
With that he leaves the kitchen and stalks off to his room. You don’t watch him, your back turned to the doorway. A few seconds later you hear keys dangling as he grabs them from the bowl by the door and swivel around in time to see him leave the apartment. You catch a glimpse of him and note that in the short time he’s been in his room he’s managed to dress and even style his hair a little. When the echoing boom of the slamming door dies away, you take a step towards the corridor and just stand there, arms hanging uselessly at your sides.  
  
“What just happened?” you ask the empty apartment.


	36. "The right kind of blond."

**> May 2012<**  
  
He’s not alone when he comes back, but you hadn’t really expected him to be. It’s late, way too late to still be up, but you couldn’t sleep without knowing where he was. It’s not a general problem. You simply wondered all day if he’d come back. And what you’d say to each other when he did. And it’s been ‘when’, never ‘if’. Because you needed it to be. The experience of what it does to you when he simply disappears is three years old, but still so very fresh. It’s a cut that has never stopped bleeding and you have to believe that he’ll be back because every alternative is equivalent to rubbing salt into the wound.  
  
That’s why you’re still awake at 3 o’clock in the morning.  
  
Something rumbles in the room next door, like something big or heavy has fallen to the floor and you know this is not one of those nights where you can drown out the noise with a pillow. Something tells you it’s not gonna be over soon either, so you settle in for a long sleepless night. The moaning starts a few minutes later. Brian must be really drunk because he doesn’t shut the trick up. The talking follows immediately after. You can’t hear the words, but it doesn’t sound like only the trick is doing the talking. You’ve never heard Brian talk during sex before, but maybe he’s held himself back all this time? It’s in equal parts embarrassing and painful to admit that you don’t know what Brian prefers during sex.  
  
The moaning gets louder and the rocking of the bed’s headboard against the wall increases in frequency.  
  
“God, fuck, yeah...” The words reach your ears as the volume rises to a new peak. The voice is unfamiliar, must be the other guy.  
  
“Shut up,” Brian’s strained reply follows.  
  
“What?” It’s the trick again, and he sounds amused. “Voice not right either?” He actually laughs and then you hear a particularly loud band against your wall, and a deep, satisfied groan from the trick.  
  
“Told you to shut the fuck up,” Brian pants between what you imagine are hard thrusts. Whatever Brian did worked; the guy shuts up after that.  
  
You still hear the occasional moan and neither the bed nor the wall are spared this night, but there’s no more talking. Instead, there’s Brian. You can see him so clearly in your head; the way his muscles strain under the perfect, tanned skin, the way his teeth bite into his lower lip and his eyes squeeze shut. When Brian himself supplies an auditory commentary on the proceedings by the occasional moan and growl, you’re lost. Your hand drifts into your pants and wraps itself around your hard cock.  
  
You don’t want to do this; you feel ashamed and pathetic. But you can’t help it. It’s like your body has declared autonomy from your brain and there is just no way to stop. And Brian’s right there in your head, his groans fill your ears and they come quicker now with that desperate almost-sob at the end, like he can’t keep them from staying inside. Your hand speeds up, twists delicately, and the rest is a flood of sparkling colors exploding behind your closed eyes.  
  
When you come to, the room next door is completely silent. You debate sneaking into the bathroom to clean up, but two reasons prevent you from it. One, you’re too sluggish to move right now and two, the danger of running into Brian is too high. You may be happy that he’s home, but you’re still unsure about what to say to him. And there’s just no way you want to look into his face when your hand and abdomen is covered in come, because of him.  
  
So you just reach for the shirt you’d thrown over the chair as you got undressed for bed earlier, and wipe away your jizz as best as you can. Then there’s voices again and you panic at first, thinking there’s gonna be a second round and you don’t know if you can witness another one. But then you realize that something’s not right. The voices get louder by the second and they’re not coming from Brian’s room anymore but from the corridor outside.  
  
Despite your wobbly knees and overall tiredness, you get out of bed and press your ear to your door. It doesn’t help much, so you crack it open quietly. Brian, completely naked and not even trying to cover himself, is standing in the entrance area slash kitchen, waiting for the guy to get dressed. You only see his ass in underwear and a pair of legs of him, because he’s bent over, trying to get his feet into his pants.  
  
“You’re really not even going to let me use the shower?” the guy asks.  
  
“You’re still here?” Brian replies, scratching his head, looking bored and impatient at the same time.  
  
Then the trick straightens up and you feel like the ground is being pulled from under your feet. He’s approximately your height, your body structure, your age, and he’s blond. He’s got an infectious smile and he turns it on Brian, no doubt trying to seduce him again. “Why can’t I stay?” the guy asks and the way Brian is rolling his eyes tells you it’s not the first time he’s asked that. He doesn’t bother with an answer, just motions for the guy to speed up. The trick’s tenacious though. “You said I was the right kind of blond. Just because my skin’s not ‘porcelain’, enough?” He actually makes the air quotes while Brian cringes.  
  
“You’re not the right kind of smart,” Brian shoots back and opens the door, stepping demonstratively to the side.  
  
“You’re an asshole,” the blond spits on his way out.  
  
“You’re the last one to get the memo?” Brian rhetorically asks back and shuts the door in the guy’s face. Then he leans his forehead against the wood and stays there for a few moments before pushing away and rubbing his face with both hands. When he turns around to walk back into his room, his eyes fall on you and you both stare at each other for a moment before you quietly close your door and get back in your bed.


	37. "The only reason it exists is because of Brian."

**> May 2012<**  
  
You go for a run at 9. You hate jogging. In fact, you hate any kind of physical activity that doesn’t lead to orgasm, but jogging has always seemed to you like a particularly asinine endeavor. You can barely stand to sweat and pant in front of others at the gym; doing it in public while running through the park has always felt like over-sharing to you. But you go for a run today. There’s so much anger inside you, you need to vent some of it and you don’t really know how. You hate running just enough to concentrate on that instead of on the other things that occupy your head. You feel like bursting with the overload of it all.  
  
For the last eight months you’ve struggled, fought and suffered to accept the fact that Brian and you are just friends. That you may have meant more to each other once upon a time, but that those times were over now; and over for good. You’ve seen him with more tricks than you remember, both in and outside your apartment and you’ve been angry then too. Because you could never compete with them. You weren’t tall, or dark, or experienced. Your skin never tanned; all the sun or solarium ever effected was an unhealthy red tint to your skin, like a sunburn. You’ve come to accept, through a series of painful encounters, that you’ll never be the person Brian would feel physically attracted to.  
  
Now you have to reassess this notion to set aright that it isn’t blonds in general that Brian’s not interested in. It’s just you.  
  
You run till you can’t anymore; till you feel stitches and your lungs hurt when you try to catch a breath. Your shirt is soaked through with sweat and clinging to your upper body and you feel overall disgusting. You could head home and risk seeing Brian. But you’re still too confused and angry to have a talk with him; the run did nothing to clear your head. Except that you now feel too exhausted to deal with anything emotional right now.  
  
On the corner, you come to a halt and consider your choices for a moment. Then you turn into the street that leads away from the apartment. Twenty minutes of jogging, or rather fast-paced walking, later you’re on campus. You’re so glad you’ve signed up for a summer class all of a sudden because it gives you permission to use the college’s studios and they have showers there. The only clothes you have available there are the ones you usually paint in and they’re not clean by anyone’s standards, but they’ll have to do.  
  
Something happens when you slip into them. The odor of oil colors and fumes of solvent have soaked your paint-splattered t-shirt and old pair of jeans and the smell is more than welcome now. It’s familiar and soothing. Your hair dripping wet, you sit down on the stool in front of the easel assigned to you and stare at the empty canvas. You want to call Daphne. But she’s left yesterday for a two-week survival trip through Australia’s outback and you don’t know how to get a hold of her. So you pick up a brush and a can of paint and bring it to the canvas. You have no idea what you’re doing; your brain ceased all functions about an hour ago, your emotions are taking a sabbatical, you don’t know who controls your muscles at this point. You don’t fight it, watch in an almost detached way when bit by bit the white expanse of linen is covered by paint. In the back of your mind you notice people coming and going, some of them taking a few minutes to watch over your shoulder. They’re saying something to you, but you don’t hear them, much less understand them and eventually they leave and are replaced by others.  
  
You have no idea how much time has passed when you re-emerge. It’s a weird feeling, surfacing again. It feels like your mind is being pulled back into your body and suddenly you feel the heaviness of your limbs again, feel the numb ache in your head, and the hole in your stomach. You turn in a circle till your eyes fall on a watch on the wall. You’ve been here almost 8 hours and you have no memory of even one minute of it. There’s a brush in your hand and it’s dripping paint onto the floor. You grab for a rag quickly and crouch down, wiping at the stains. When you straighten up again you see it. It’s not finished, not by far, but you see what it’ll be one day. You see the praise you’re going to receive because it is genius. But you can’t feel any satisfaction about it. The only reason it exists is because of Brian and because of the state your friendship is in right now.  
  
Art is what saved you once; it is your forte and yours alone. Brian is not supposed to be a part of it. He’s not supposed to invade it. And you feel like he already has. Nothing you created before was anywhere near as great as what you’re looking at now. And you hate, absolutely hate, that you know he’ll forever own this part of you too. There simply is no escape. How are you supposed to go on with your life, when every part of it is infused with Brian?  
  
You’ll come back here tomorrow. And you’ll finish this painting. And it will be great and is probably going to earn you an A+. And you’ll never be able to look at it without a heavy heart. No matter how far in life you’ll come and how well you’ll manage to convince yourself that you don’t need anyone but yourself, this painting will always be there to remind you that you’re wrong.


	38. "An amazing fantasy."

**> May 2012<**  
  
You walk the entire way back home, not thinking about anything but what to wear tonight. Sometime while cleaning the brushes, you've felt the indescribable need to go out and get wasted. Maybe you’ll call Emmett; it was fun drinking and dancing with him last time.  
  
You try his phone, using the number he thumbed into your phone right before you left Babylon the last time and after making you promise to call whenever you needed a friend. As it rings, you go through the clothes in your closet. Just as you find the sparkly shirt you were looking for, Emmett’s voicemail picks up. You quickly mumble something about going out to Babylon tonight and to come find you there if he feels like joining.  
  
You stop at a fast food restaurant on your way to the club. You haven’t eaten in almost 24 hours and even though you don’t feel like food, you stuff yourself with a huge cheeseburger and the biggest serving of fries you’ve ever seen. You know that there’s gonna be alcohol in Babylon and no matter how self-destructive you might feel at the moment, you know about the dangers of drinking on an empty stomach.  
  
It’s Sunday night and you’re a little surprised at the line that’s formed already in front of the entrance. But one of the bouncers sees you and waves you over, motioning for you to go in. You don’t know if it’s your outfit - you look fucking hot, even Brian would agree - or the fact that the bouncer remembered you from the couple of times you’ve been here with Brian that grants you access so easily. You’re not about to ask, happily making your way to the bar and ordering a JB. Tonight’s gonna put a dent in your monthly budget, but you tell yourself what’s one dent more.  
  
You turn around and, leaning back against the counter, sweep the crowd. It’s paying out that you watched Brian do this numerous times; you’ve got the moves down to the very small, superior smirk. As your eyes scan the dance floor, you tell yourself that you’re looking for a trick, someone tall, dark, auburn-haired, with hazel eyes. But you’re not drunk enough yet to silence the voice in your head that reminds you that what you’re actually searching for is the original. He’s starting his internship tomorrow, so the chances that he’ll show up here tonight are as slim as they can be and you’re secretly thankful for that. Even though he hasn’t been home when you went back there to shower and dress, he’s probably there now, sitting at his computer and preparing for tomorrow.  
  
You turn abruptly, angry at yourself, and motion to the barman for another drink. You didn’t come here to think about Brian. Thankfully, there’s a liquid remedy for that. You need to  _not_  think about anything right now, so you move towards the dance floor and let the music consume you. The next few dances you lose yourself completely in the beat, letting the alcohol do its work. You feel men gravitate towards you; there are hands on your hips, on your back, on your ass. You don’t encourage them, but you don’t pull away either. They are all just means to an end. Eventually you’ll pick one of the guys and take him to the backroom. You’ve never been there before. You’ve seen Brian disappear behind the chain curtain several times; every single time you’ve been in Babylon with him, not that it was that often.  
  
Someone’s mouthing the back of your neck and it feels nice enough so you allow that to go on, but it reminds you, or rather your cock, that you’ve come here for more. When you open your eyes again and search the crowd, it is with determination. You mentally dismiss most of the guys who don’t fit the criteria you’re looking for tonight and comply a list of possibilities. There’s four guys in particular that might fit, though none of them are an exact match. More alcohol will surely help smooth over their flaws and you move to the bar again.  
  
Eight bucks later you make eye contact with number 2 on your short list. It works like a charm; just a little bit of staring and a tiny nod towards the backroom entrance, then there’s a smile and a nod in response and the guy is already moving in the direction you indicated. You make to follow and are intercepted by Emmett.  
  
“Dance with me,” he yells excitedly over the sound of the blaring music and grabs both your hands, trying to pull you towards the dance floor.  
  
“Not now, Emmett,” you reply, your voice loud and slightly harsher than intended.  
  
Your eyes follow the progress of the guy you dubbed ‘Number 2’ in your head as he makes his way around the gyrating crowd. Emmett watches you and glances towards Number 2, seeing him give you a grin before he disappears behind the chain curtain.  
  
He leans in till his lips are almost touching your ear. “Justin, let’s go have a drink and talk,” he suggests and nods back towards the bar.  
  
“Maybe later.” Your eyes remain trained on the entrance, your thoughts already there.  
  
“Baby, have you ever--” Emmett falls silent, suddenly uncomfortable, and you know what he was about to ask. Because you look so young and because you have these trusting blue eyes, as all of your friends have noted at one time or another, he assumes you’re as innocent as you look. But he changes directions when he sees your expression harden, and says instead, “...have you... ever gone in there before?”  
  
“Ask me again in an hour?” you reply. It makes Emmett smile sadly.  
  
“I don’t think you thought this through,” Emmett tries to argue. “It can get scary in there. And you’re so... Justin, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”  
  
It’s so weird, having this conversation here, in the middle of the dance floor, yelling every bit to make yourself heard over the incessant beat. “Em, I appreciate you looking out for me, I really do, but it’s really not necessary. I can take care of myself.” You’ve spent a year traveling through Europe all on your own, for Christ’s sake. You can manage the backroom of a club in Pittsfuckingburgh. You smile at him, self-assuredly, and step around him, making your way through the throng of dancing people.  
  
“Justin, baby, what are you doing?” Emmett intercepts you again, jumping into your way right outside the entrance to the backroom. Isn’t that the million dollar question? You know what he’s doing, though - trying to draw you into a conversation so you forget your initial goal.  
  
Your patience is shot and you look around desperately, trying to think of something that will make him understand. “I painted today,” you yell the first thing that comes to your mind.  
  
It’s a non-sequitur, but Emmett waits patiently, to see where you’re going with it. You have no idea, but you hope you’ll get there soon. You don’t know how much longer your determination will hold. “Oh?” It’s a question as well as a request to continue. Did Emmett even know that you are an artist, or at least trying to be?  
  
“Yeah. And it turned out great. Amazing, really. Best thing I ever put down on canvas.” For some reason, it feels good to yell it.  
  
“Uh-huh,” Emmett hesitantly replies, knowing there’s more to come.  
  
“Only, the catch is, it wasn’t me. Yes, sure, I held the brush, and I moved the arm, and I chose the colors,” you wave it all away with a dismissive movement of your arm like those things don’t mean anything, because they don’t. “But the inspiration, the vision – it wasn’t mine. It was his. It was him all the way.” You motion into the vague void, knowing Emmett will understand who you’re talking about. “He’s everywhere. No matter where I go or what I do, he’ll always there, because he’s in my head. No, not only in my head. He’s in every fiber of my being.” A little melodramatic, you think, but not less true because of it. “So I thought, I’d come here, to a place that’s his. Since he’s in every one of mine…”  
  
You trail off. That’s not completely true. What you told Emmett has not been the reason for you to come here. In fact, you didn’t think of it until a millisecond before you said it. Not consciously at least. But now that it’s out there, it rings true enough. You’ve never been to the backroom before and you’ve never felt the need to, but that is where you want to be tonight. He’s broken into your inner sanctum today, and tonight you’re going to leave your mark in his. Maybe that’s what’s been guiding you all along? You don’t know. You don’t know a lot of things anymore.  
  
“What are you trying to prove?” It should sound condescending, patronizing, but all you hear is his concern and for some inexplicable reason it wells up tears to your eyes. His pitying look is what breaks you. Or rather makes you admit that you’re drifting, because you were broken before. It feels like someone has cut your lifeline; that imagined rope that tethered you to your life or to your place in the world. It’s gone now and you feel like you’re drifting in space, knowing that this is not where you belong, but so tragically helpless to do anything about it but go wherever the wind takes you.  
  
You snatch your arm from his grip, not violently, but with enough emphasis that he won’t think of grabbing for you again. Before you turn around and walk away, you take in Emmett’s face, see the genuine worry there as well as the resignation and you deflate, just slightly. You take one deep breath, release it slowly, look around you and lock eyes with Emmett again. You shrug and say, “Nothing to lose, Emmett.” Spreading your arms, you shake your head. “Nothing to lose.”  
  
The first thing you notice is the smell. The air is hotter in here, thicker. There’s sweat, and this artificial, plastic-y scent of lube and condoms; there’s a faint whiff of stale air, pregnant with mildew, and the ever-present, unmistakable odor of come. You never imagined a combination of these smells to be so exhilarating. Or maybe it’s your nerves.  
  
You keep a lookout on Number 2, but your eyes need time to adjust to this different lighting and even as you try to make out the half or completely naked people, you don’t see him. Heads turn as you walk deeper inside, trying not to get lost in the maze-like turns and corridors, but losing the orientation moments later. You’re fresh meat. And though you don’t consider yourself innocent, in these premises you’re more vestal than the Virgin Mary herself.  
  
A few minutes later you are tempted to abandon the experiment when someone else’s gaze catches your eye. He’s not what you were looking for. For one thing, he’s bleached blond and the hair is too long for your taste; also, he’s too styled, and he’s trying too hard to be hot. But he’s tall and muscular without this off-putting steroid feel to it, and his eyes are pretty expressive, even in this light, though they’re blue, not hazel or brown. He moves with a predatory haze that reminds you of Brian.  
  
“Hi, I’m Brand—”  
  
“I don’t care,” you cut him off.  
  
He purses his lips, then bites them and the action is also so familiar. Any other day, it would make your heart squeeze in pain, but you welcome it today. You want to get lost in your fantasy and any help, visual or otherwise, is appreciated.  
  
He reaches around, his hand on your ass, squeezing it lightly. You know what he wants, but he’s not getting it. Staring into his eyes unmovingly, you try to communicate the message. He looks confused at first until, a few moments later, comprehension sets in. Then there’s only surprise and maybe a little bit of disbelief in light of your daring. He huffs a laugh but you don’t join in and he turns serious again. There’s a moment’s stare-off, then he tilts his head.  
  
He smiles a practiced smile that is supposed to soften the blow. “I don’t bottom.”  
  
“Tell that to your next trick,” you say and continue to stare at him unblinkingly while he seems to consider his choices, his eyes transfixed on your lips. Just as you’re about to turn away to look for something else, he gives an almost imperceptible nod.  
  
He leads you to a secluded corner. It’s darker here, but you don’t care. You feel validated in your assumption that he’s probably an established top who doesn’t want the fact that he’s about to bottom being advertised to the gossips of gay Pittsburgh. You don’t care for his social problems. You came here for a good fuck and that’s exactly what you’re going to get.  
  
He’s still staring at your lips, though it’s harder to make out here, in the darkness. When he leans in to kiss you, you turn your head to the side, reflexively.  
  
“I don’t kiss. And that’s non-negotiable,” you let him know.  
  
No matter what you came here for and no matter how hot he is, you don’t want his lips on yours. But since he seems so fascinated with your mouth, you decide to give him something else that he’ll probably like and sink to your knees. You make quick work of his zipper and a moment later you’re wrapped around a solid, hard cock. It’s a nice feeling; not the cock in your mouth, though that’s nice too, but the way how it gets so very quiet in your head suddenly. The silence is welcome and you almost get carried away with your task.  
  
After a while you pull off and glance up at him. He catches his breath and stares down, not understanding why you stopped. You debate informing him that his moans and ‘fuck, yeah’s are starting to attract quite an audience, but then you think, ‘Fuck it’ and continue what you started. Before he reaches the peak, you stop.  
  
“Turn around,” you tell him, your voice devoid of emotion. There’s a moment of hesitation again before he follows your directions, but you don’t pay too much attention to him. You roll down a condom and coat yourself with lube, using a liberal amount because you wager that, since he’s a top, he doesn’t bottom too often. You coat your fingers too and while you stroke yourself with one hand, your other begins the work of stretching him.  
  
The action, though far from being routine, is welcome in its monotony in the sense that it doesn’t require you to think, and you spare a moment of your attention to glance around the room again. Your previous audience has gone back to their respective partners, only the occasional set of eyes sweeping the corner you’re in, but more in a general glance-over than in a conscious effort to see something. You’re almost completely hidden by the shadows though. It would need a trained pair of eyes to make out you and your company in here.  
  
You slowly pull out your fingers and replace them with your dick, moving equally slow. Your trick pushes back and down till you’re bottomed out against him and you give the both of you a moment to adjust before you begin and set a steady rhythm of deep, measured strokes. You release an involuntary groan. For a top, ‘Brand—something‘ is an amazingly talented bottom. He meets your thrusts and squeezes his muscles in all the right places. Your eyes close from the pure pleasure.  
  
The images are there instantly. In your mind, your dick is sliding into Brian, the grunts are dubbed in Brian’s voice, the muscled back you’re leaning your forehead against is Brian’s back and it is his hand on your ass that keeps pulling you closer on every push inside. It’s an amazing fantasy, one you indulged in many times, but never like this; never while being with someone. Unfortunately, the intensity of it propels you toward the abyss too fast. You don’t want it to be over just yet, which means you have to get rid of the images. It takes a few attempts before you can force yourself to open your eyes to return to reality, but once you do, he’s still there.  
  
He’s leaning against the wall across from you, bathed in blue light, eyes sweeping your form from head to toe before coming back up to lock on your eyes. He doesn’t look away and you can’t either. You don’t know what you read in his face. You think you can see your hopelessness reflected in them, but you can’t be sure that you’re not simply projecting it. The same goes for other emotions as well. Is the pain in his eyes truly his or has he become your mirror? A trick kneels down before him and Brian barely seems to notice, his eyes never breaking contact with yours.  
  
Your hips pick up the pace. The longer you stare at Brian, the more of your previous anger resurfaces and floods your body. You take it out on your trick who, fortunately, doesn’t complain. His back arches as he comes with a loud groan. The volume is what makes Brian glance over to your trick. Brian’s eyes widen a little in surprise, probably recognizing the guy as someone he knows or fucked too, but he schools his expression a moment later into a neutral mask, eyes back on yours. Your thrusts are short and fast now, and the trick is keening with each one, the hypersensitivity making him buck against you.  
  
Brian watches without emotion. He’s barely blinking, but then again, neither do you. And now you don’t even have to close your eyes for the images to come. You drown in Brian’s eyes, and you don’t care if he sees it; if he sees that, in your mind, it’s him you’re fucking, it’s him you want, him you need and dream about and think about. You appreciate the visual support to aid your imagination. The intensity of your own orgasm takes you by surprise. You don’t want to break the eye contact, but you can’t help it. Your head falls against the trick’s neck as you shudder through it.  
  
When you re-emerge from your post-coital haze, Brian is gone. The trick who’s been sucking him off, still on the floor and gesturing obscenely towards what you think must be a retreating Brian. But the darkness prevents you from actually seeing anything.  
  
When you’re finished tucking yourself back in and straightening up your clothes a little to look presentable again, you rush out, but Brian’s long gone. You catch Emmett’s eye who looks sad but gives you a smile anyway, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t even wave you over, probably knowing that you won’t follow his invitation. Instead you head outside and leave. But you don’t go home. You can’t.


	39. "Say goodbye properly."

**> May 2012<**  
  
You flee to your mother’s.  
  
“Oh, Justin,” she sighs when she sees you, seconds before you’re enveloped in her arms. You feel how desperately she wants to say, ‘I told you so’ and you appreciate it all the more that she doesn’t.  
  
“What happened?” she asks instead and pushes you down into a chair, getting to work behind the counter. You know exactly what she’s doing there and, sure enough, a moment later you smell the aroma of a hot chocolate cooking waft through the kitchen.  
  
You didn’t come here to talk. You came for the peace. But the words tumble from your mind nevertheless, unfiltered by your brain. “I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into.”  
  
Your mother sets down a mug of the steaming hot beverage in front of you and regards you calmly. There’s sympathy and compassion in her eyes and you don’t want it to make you feel so good, but it does. After a moment of silence, she takes a sip from her own cup and asks, “Do you want to talk?”  
  
You don’t. But maybe you need to. However, you still don’t know where to start. So you remain silent, seeking answers from the depths of the hot chocolate in your mug. When you look up, her eyes are still on you, her expression soft. She looks exactly like you remember her from when you were 5 or 6. You just want to crawl into her arms like you did back then.  
  
You’re not sure what she sees on your face, but she stands up from the chair, walks around the counter and, brushing the hair from your forehead, places a kiss there. “Oh, Justin,” she murmurs quietly.  
  
It makes you sob. Almost. Tears pool in your eyes, but you don’t let them fall.  
  
“Honey, you know all I ever wanted for you was to be happy?”  
  
For some reason that does it. You can’t hold back the tears anymore. You let them run freely, though silently. “I know, Mom. And I’m not.”  
  
“I can see that.” She walks back to the stool she abandoned moments ago and sits down again, reaching across the counter to cover the hand that’s not holding the mug with hers. “What happened?” she asks.  
  
“I don’t know. I…” you wanted to say that you thought Brian would make you happy, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t talk to your mother about Brian. “I—”  
  
“Is it Brian?”  
  
“I…” You sob now. “I can’t…” Another sob. “I can’t talk to you about him.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because you hate him.”  
  
There’s another one of those moments where she simply stares at you with that tender expression on her face. Then she speaks. “Oh, honey, I could never hate him. At least not in the way you think. He made you happy once. I could never hate someone who loved my baby like he did.”  
  
You cringe at the endearment. “I thought… Thought we could pick up where we left off, you know? Thought when I went to see this apartment, that this was a sign, a new chance for me, and us, to do it all over again. Make it better this time.”  
  
“And now you don’t think that anymore?”  
  
“It’s not working. It can’t. Because he doesn’t want me like that anymore. And I can’t go on like this. Can’t keep waiting till… Can’t keep waiting for things to change and finally be what they’re supposed to be.”  
  
“What if they already are exactly what they’re supposed to be?”  
  
All this time you’ve been talking to your mug, but her question makes you look up in surprise. “Huh?”  
  
“What if this is your chance not for a do-over, but for something else. For friendship,” she suggests tentatively.  
  
“I can’t be his friend, Mom. It hurts so much.” There’s a pause in which you both are quiet until you speak again. “I don’t understand. Why would I find him again, only to suffer even worse than before? It doesn’t make sense. It’s cruel.”  
  
“Maybe you’re supposed to find closure?”  
  
Is that it? Is your mother right? Were you never supposed to  _be_  with Brian? Were your paths destined to cross again so you could say goodbye properly this time before each of you going your separate ways?  
  
The thought makes you shake uncontrollably. For several minutes you focus on controlling your trembling limbs. When you think you’ve managed, you dare using your voice again. “You left Dad. How did you know it was time?” And now the question is out and you can’t believe that it is. You’ve done your damnedest to not even acknowledge the thought in your head and now it’s not only in your head, it’s everywhere. Are you really thinking of leaving? It feels like you’re expected to sign your own death sentence, but you’re oddly calm at the same time. Why is that, you wonder? While your mother still ponders your question, the voice in your head provides the answer: There’s more dignity in walking to your own execution than being dragged to it.  
  
“I don’t think it has anything to do with time, Honey,” your mother replies. She sighs and pauses to think. You love that she talks to you about this stuff without hesitation now. Whether it was the time you spent in Europe or the fact that she’s come to accept that you’re an adult or that your infatuation with Brian wasn’t just  _that_  – it doesn’t matter. She always gives you her honest opinion now and never sugarcoats the past. It was a good decision to come here tonight. When she’s done thinking, her eyes find yours and she answers your question, “There’s a point that you reach where you have to ask yourself if the pretty world you created in your head of the life you dreamed to have is strong enough to gloss over the reality that is… well, not like the fantasy at all. In the end, it’s all about self-worth. How many of your dreams are you willing to sacrifice before there’s not enough of you left to keep them alive?”  
  
Her advices aren’t usually this cryptic, but the alcohol in your blood stream somehow makes everything that she said seem absolutely logical and clear as day. You hope the lucidity outlasts the sobering process. “Can I stay here tonight?” you ask her when you re-emerge from your thoughts.  
  
She stands up and walks around the table, kissing the top of your head like she used to do when you were little. “For as long as you like,” she answers. “You never have to ask.”  
  
“Thanks, Mom.” You’re thanking her for more than just a place to crash.  
  
You don’t know how long you continue to sit at the kitchen counter, even after your mother leaves to go to bed. Your cup of now cold chocolate is almost empty and you slosh around the last gulp that’s left of it at the bottom. The swirling, never-ending motion of the liquid is hypnotizing and strangely illuminating. It has always seemed like your thoughts had been doing the same ever since you ran into Brian again: going in circles, making you dizzy and disoriented. And maybe it is the alcohol that’s making you see things clearly now. Well, no, maybe not exactly clearly, but at the very least not as hazy anymore. It’s like a gray mist has been lifted and though the underneath isn’t as soft and cozy without it, at least it’s real. You need something real to hold onto now.  
  
You stumble into your bedroom. It’s a home office now with a pull-out couch. You appreciate that the condo doesn’t have stairs like your old house did, not trusting yourself to be able to manage them in your current condition.  
  
It makes you wonder though… Shouldn’t the alcohol have worn off already? It’s not that you drank that much and it’s been several hours already. But maybe it isn’t the alcohol at all that’s keeping you sluggish and your thought process slow. Maybe it’s just the gravity of your recent decision.  
  
Your entire life and decision making process of the past half a year has been based on two major principles; truths that you found unchangeable. First: Not having Brian in your life was torture. Second: Having Brian close and not being able to  _be close_  to each other was torture too. The past semester and living arrangements have been a constant rocking back and forth from the frying pan, to the fire, and back again. And after all these months you feel accordingly sore and raw.  
  
You both have done things to hurt one another. But one of you didn’t know that what he was doing was causing you pain while the other, you, had done it on purpose. You were hurting so much and you couldn’t tell Brian that for fear of laying your secrets bare – that you were still, and forever would be irrevocably, passionately, heart-stoppingly, crazy in love with him. And you couldn’t tell him, because you didn’t want to unload your personal problems, problems that were inseparably linked to Brian’s persona, on him. It wouldn’t be fair and you don’t want to be that person. But finding another outlet for your pain and your anger has proven just as bad a plan of action. All it did was cause even more pain. When would it stop?  
  
There was only one possible answer to that. If Brian didn’t know what his actions were doing to you, then you had to be the one to break this downward spiral. Or it would never stop. And you didn’t know how much more of it you could take.  
  
You succumb to sleep and dream of nothing but black and empty space. But you’re not scared. It’s a familiar dream. You know the darkness well.


	40. "No letter. No call. No nothing. Gone. Poof. Disappeared."

**> May 2012<**  
  
You wake up at your mother’s place a bit disoriented. Slowly, the last night comes back to you, accompanied by a pounding headache. You notice the pillow under your head is damp and you wonder if you cried in your sleep; wonder if you mother heard you. You hope not. You feel awkward already as it is.  
  
You take your time starting the day. You tell yourself that you’re just waiting for your mother to leave, not wanting to run into her when you feel like death warmed over. But in the back of your mind you know that you’re stalling. There’s a talk that needs to happen and the prospect of it makes your stomach turn inside out. It’s even worse than the times back at school when you had to talk in front of the entire class.  
  
Then you remember that it’s Brian’s first day of internship and for a moment you’re tempted to text him to wish him luck or ask how it’s going. You don’t though, not sure where the two of you stand after last night. So you wait for the day to pass, keeping yourself busy on your mother’s desktop computer, but not daring to go home, lest your shaky decision will crumble under the sight of the life you share with Brian right now.  
  
Hours later you enter the apartment that’s been yours and Brian’s home for the past eight months and the impact of your new resolve hits you deep. For a second, you’re inclined to throw overboard everything you’ve decided on your way here. But the dull, throbbing ache in your gut reminds you why this is necessary. It’s because of the pain that you have to go through with this. It’s because you hurt every single time you enter what is supposed to be your home. It’s the not knowing who’s there besides Brian, and in what state of undress. The trepidation is always there. The pain and heartache have become part of your life. Again. In the few years after your father’s funeral, it’s been bad. It’s been bad when you travelled through Europe and it’s been bad while you whiled away your time at Dartmouth. You don’t want to admit it so bluntly, but in the last few weeks and months before you’d run into Brian again, it had started to get better. Not in the way that led you to believe that the pain would be gone completely one day. No. You knew and had come to accept that this would never happen. But it had simmered down to a manageable level. All of it had been blown to dust the moment you agreed to move in with Brian. Or rather the moment you decided to just be friends; not that it was a conscious decision on your part. It just sort of happened.  
  
However, the joy and relief of seeing him again had vanished quickly. It was replaced by anguish and heartache and jealousy whose pain cut so deep you weren’t sure you’d ever recover. And every day you continued this farce of a friendship – well, a farce on your part at least – it felt like prodding at the edges of a barely scabbed over wound. Even the days that aren’t painful are still weighing heavy on your shoulders, because the potential for more pain is always there, hovering above you, looming just around the corner, waiting to strike. And it won’t stop. Unless you make it.  
  
You know that it will be horrible. At first. But you also know, or so you tell yourself, that you’ll just need to hold on until the scenery changes. You fervently hope that it won’t take as long this time, but you are prepared to be patient. Because you know, just as you know that what you’re doing now is masochistic, that eventually it will get better. And that’s the hope you cling to when you call out into the dark void of the apartment. “Brian?”  
  
Silence. There’s not the tiniest thing to be heard. You blindly grope for the light switch and glance around. Nothing. He’s not home. More than that – not only is Brian not home, but it seems like he hasn’t been there last night either. You know because the coffee machine is untouched, yesterday’s filter still sticking out on the side because you’d been too angry to correct it. And there’s just no way that Brian would ever leave the apartment without having a cup. You wonder idly where he spent the night. Not that he doesn’t have a ton of possibilities for a sleepover. He just has to hint or wink and gay people from all over town will get in line to take him home with them. It’s still weird though; you would have expected him to start his internship well-rested and prepared. But maybe he’s out, celebrating a really great first day. For a moment, you feel excluded that he didn’t call you or let you know how it went. But it’s just a second; until you remember again that you didn’t part on good terms last night.  
  
You briefly debate whether to wait up till Brian returns, but he may not be alone when he does and, frankly, you are kind of tired. Sleeping in your old room only sounds good in theory, because you had to sleep on a pull-out futon since you took your bed with you to this apartment. So you decide to postpone the talk and besides, you feel like you have to have all your faculties together and alert when you discuss your decision with Brian; or rather inform him of it.  
  
Grabbing a bottle of water, you are about to head to your room when the phone rings. It’s the landline and you’re startled. Nobody ever calls on your landline. You have it just because it came with the internet package, but neither you nor Brian really use it. It’s so much more comfortable to have people call your cell directly since it relieves you of the task of calling them back. Privately, you also relish the luxury of screening your calls.  
  
It takes a second till you’ve located the phone and when you pick up, you’re even more surprised.  
  
“Justin?” It’s so loud in the background, you can barely make out the voice on the other end of the line.  
  
“Who is this?”  
  
“It’s me, Michael.”  
  
You’re still not sure you heard correctly, the background noise drowning out most of the reply.  
  
“Who?” you ask again, involuntarily raising your voice as well even though you don’t really have to.  
  
There’s a bit of rustling and clicking and after a few seconds the noise decreases tremendously and you can finally hear clearly. “Michael?” The voice on the other and says, or rather asks. “Brian’s friend?” Again, it’s phrased more like a question and you barely refrain from rolling your eyes.  
  
Yes, you remember Michael, though ‘friend’ might be stretching the facts too far. You all had gone to school together and, if memory serves right, you shared a couple of meals in the cafeteria. But things had broken off mostly when you came along because Brian started to spend all of his time with you from then on and Michael had been mostly forgotten. Sure, Brian used to work in the diner where Deb, Michael’s mother, was working, but he wasn’t employed there for barely more than a year and you don’t know how much, if at all, it had contributed to fastening a friendly bond between Brian and Michael. If anything, you probably see Michael more often than Brian because you now bus the tables at the same diner Brian used to work at and Michael comes by occasionally to pick up his mother. You and Michael share a nod when you see each other, but your level of knowing one another doesn’t stretch to accommodate even a ‘Hi’. And since Brian never even mentioned Michael in all the time that you’ve lived together, you are inclined to believe that it’s because there is nothing there to tell.  
  
Why Michael would be calling then, at this time of night, and you of all people, completely eludes you. “Why are you calling?” you ask. Maybe you’re being unfriendly, but you’re tired and could care less right now.  
  
“Do you know where Brian’s car is?” Michael asks back and you’re not sure if it’s supposed to be a reply to your question or if he’s just ignoring it. Either way, his question seems like a bit of a non-sequitur. “Has he left his keys at home? I can’t seem to find them.”  
  
Things get weirder by the second, you think. “How should I know? I don’t even know where Brian is,” you answer, trying to sound neutral instead of sulky.  
  
“He’s here, in Babylon.”  
  
Ah, so that’s one question answered. “So, why don’t you ask him where he left his keys?” You actually do feel bad for Michael. You’re more pissed at Brian, but Michael, by bad luck, is the one to take the brunt of it.  
  
Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe he just doesn’t care. “I would,” he replies. “I mean, I have. But he’s in not in any condition to answer. He’s completely plastered. And he’s starting to pick fights with every stranger. I wanted to get him home. But I don’t know where his keys are or if he even got there by car.”  
  
Suddenly everything falls into place. You don’t remember Brian ever getting so drunk that he wouldn’t know how to find his car or get home on his own. But, well, you haven’t been around for a few years – maybe it’s a habit he picked up somewhere along the way.  
  
You look around the corner and towards the bowl that usually holds both your keys. Aside from your own set, it’s empty, as expected. Brian’s car key is fastened to the same bunch that holds the rest of his keys. He wouldn’t have left the apartment without taking them. But you want to be a good friend – god, you’re starting to fucking hate this stupid word – and go check in his room as well.  
  
You don’t often go into Brian’s room. For one, you never know whom, besides Brian, you’re going to find there and secondly, his smell is everywhere and it’s intoxicating. It’s a mix of cologne, leather, cigarettes, Beam, and coffee. It smells masculine and never fails to make your cock stir in your pants. But you try to ignore it now and look around. Brian’s a tidy person; anally so. But his room looks messy right now. Not your level of messiness, but well underway to getting there. You wonder what could have happened that would have made Brian forego his almost obsessive need for cleanliness. There’s even clothes on the floor and Brian never, under any circumstances, ever leaves his clothes in a pile, and on the floor of all places!  
  
As you go through his abandoned clothes, checking the pockets, you pick up a few items and place them back on the shelves where they belong. His alarm clock somehow ended up on the floor, as well a couple of his magazines that you know he studies for their ads. There’s even a picture of the two of you, back from the olden days, when you were both still in high school. You are so focused on finding the keys and on Michael’s voice on the phone, asking you if you found something in measured intervals, that you don’t notice some things at first. It won’t register until later, but there’s a crease in the photograph. A folding crease separating your face from Brian’s. Halfway hidden under the bed is a crude ball-pen drawing that looks somehow familiar, though you don’t realize why.  
  
Before you can focus on it, your fingers chafe on something sharp-edged and you pull out Brian’s set of keys from one of the discarded pair of jeans.  
  
“Found them,” you mumble distractedly into the phone, wondering why Brian would go out without taking them. Was he drunk already when he left the apartment? It doesn’t make sense. And why would he get plastered like that if he had to get up early for work tomorrow? Brian is nothing if not focused on his career. This behavior is very much unlike him.  
  
“Can you come pick him up?” Michael asks.  
  
You hesitate, not really knowing why. It’s not like you can have a conversation with a drunk Brian, so it’s not the apprehension that makes you pause. Maybe you’re just not sure if Brian would want to see you right now; would want to be ‘saved’ by you. The way he looked at you when you last saw him, back in the backroom of Babylon, is still fresh on your mind. You’re still not sure if you imagined the expression on his eyes or if he really did seem saddened somehow; though why, you have no idea.  
  
Eventually, it is the thought that Brian has to be back at work early next morning that sets you into motion. “Yeah,” you tell Michael, “I’ll be there in 20.” Why he is risking a hangover and making a bad impression on the second day of his internship, you don’t know. But you leave Brian’s room, grabbing your jacket from the hanger on the way out of the apartment, and make your way downstairs, hoping Brian has parked in his usual spot.  
  
The streetlights are on of course, but in the yellowish light it’s hard to make out Brian’s vehicle. He drives a black Jeep, sort of the same model that you used to have in your senior year. You still mourn the loss of your car even if it was a piece of shit. You had left it behind for your mother to dispense of when you haphazardly decided to go to Europe. You haven’t had the time, need, or money to look for a new car yet. You wonder though why Brian chose this model. You want to think that it was for sentimental reasons, but most likely it was just something that he could afford. In passing, you scold yourself for constantly looking for signs where there aren’t any.  
  
When you arrive at Babylon, the cluster of people points the way. Close to the bar a crowd has come together and tempers are running high, though a few of the burly security guys are trying to keep things under control The instigator of this, at least you assume that that’s what Brian is, sits removed from them all. It looks like the situation has taken on a life of its own since Brian sits slumped at the bar, being held upright by Michael’s arm. As you come closer, you hear the bartender hotly tell Michael off. “If he wasn’t the hottest thing that walked through those doors in the ten years I’m working the bar in this joint, I’d ban him from the club. You understand? Once he’s sober again make sure he knows this. He can’t go off on our patrons like that. Next time, I will have to ban him.”  
  
Michael nods submissively and looks relieved when you join him and Brian at the bar.  
  
“You are not going to ban him,” you tell the bartender, glancing at him sideways so he knows you’re talking to him, but barely paying him attention aside from that. “We both know that Brian not only attracts a crowd, but the revenue you make from all the guys who want to buy him a drink must be impressive. You wouldn’t want to miss out on that and lose Brian to Pistol,” you state matter-of-factly. It’s true enough, you wager.  
  
“Sun-shine,” Brian drawls the moment he spots you. He tries to lean over to, presumably, pat your hair, but he almost slips from the bar stool in the process and Michael has to adjust the grip he has around his middle to keep Brian upright.  
  
“Can you walk?” you ask Brian plainly, if a little coldly. You don’t even know why you’re angry with him. It’s not like he’s done something to earn your spite, but you can’t help it. The pain from the last days and weeks makes you act this way and you’re not in the condition to control these urges right now.  
  
“I’ll walk with you to the end of the world, if you wanted,” Brian replies, a dopey grin on his face.  
  
You roll your eyes. You haven’t had the pleasure of meeting drunk Brian before. You don’t want to find him cute or adorable. Mostly because he would resent you for it, but also because it has the potential to sway your plans of ‘the talk’ and you really need to go through with it. Not now, of course, but maybe tomorrow, when Brian’s back to thinking clearly.  
  
“You have the most beautiful hair, you know that?” Brian asks and again tries to touch it. You duck away in time. “The others are just never right. Or worse: bleached. Blegh.” Brian makes a disgustingly accurate retching sound which alarms you for a moment, thinking he’s about to puke all over the bar in Babylon. But then you realize he’s just echoing his words.  
  
“Right,” you reply because you remember reading somewhere that it’s best to agree with crazy people. Drunk does not necessarily equals crazy, but it can’t hurt, you reckon. “Okay, so, let’s get him to the car,” you say in Michael’s direction.  
  
You bend and grab one of Brian’s arm, pulling it over both your shoulders while Michael does the same on Brian’s other side. You heave him upright and onto his feet which isn’t an easy feat since Brian’s not cooperating. His attention is completely on you and he buries his nose in your hair. You don’t even want to think about what it must smell like. You didn’t even have it in you to shower this morning. But Brian doesn’t seem to be grossed out by it.  
  
He inhales deeply and mumbles, “So long. So fucking long.”  
  
He can’t mean the length of your hair. You had it cut only a few days ago, right after the Ethan debacle.  
  
“You came back,” Brian continues to mumble nonsensical things, apparently jumping from one thought to the next without an in-between. “Wanted you to come back. Been waiting for you.”  
  
“Yeah well,” you reply, so why you don’t know. It’s not like he can keep up a conversation. “Thanks for leaving the keys.” Over Brian’s head you try to see Michael and ask, “Why didn’t you just put him in a cab?”  
  
Michael cringes. “I don’t have enough money on me and Brian spent all of his on shots.”  
  
“No,” Brian protests, though what exactly neither of you is sure. “Been waiting for you to come back. Been waiting so long.”  
  
You roll your eyes at Brian’s logic. “I didn’t know I was supposed to get you.”  
  
“You’ve been gone so long,” Brian continues.  
  
“You could have called or left a note. I would have been here sooner,” you tell him.  
  
“No note,” Brian mutters. “No letter. No call. No nothing. Gone. Poof. Disappeared. You just disappeared.”  
  
Your mouth opens slightly as though to say something, but no sounds come out, so you close it again. But you have to stop and it’s awkward for a moment, because Michael continues to walk and for a second, Brian teeters between you two until Michael realizes that you’ve stopped and comes to a halt as well.  
  
“What are you talking about?” you ask Brian and it’s less an inquiry than a dawning idea. The thought just never occurred to you before. “Brian?” you ask insistently, trying to get through to him through the thick layers of alcohol. “What. Did. You. Mean?” You enunciate every word, speaking louder than necessary since you’re already outside of Babylon and the blaring music is reduced to a dull thumping in the background.  
  
But Brian’s brain moved on already and he is gazing adoringly at you again, the arm over your shoulder trying to grab the hair behind your ears. “So pretty,” he mumbles, giving you a drunken smile.  
  
You fight down the urge to shake him and to vent some of your frustration like this. What does he mean, he waited for you? Is there a chance…? Could he…? Your mind runs wild with possibilities and for the briefest of moments you allow it to before you let your rational thinking take over and put an end to all of this. This is insane. It’s just another excuse your heart is searching for to not move on with the plan you’ve come up with. You cannot base your life or your future on the drunken ramblings of Brian. It would be crazy and weak. And you wouldn’t forgive yourself this time. That’s just another way of setting yourself up for more disappointment and hurt. And you have to be strong right now. You cannot allow yourself to hope, only to have those hopes smashed again.  
  
This is nothing but a test the universe is putting you through. And this time you’re gonna pass. This time you’ll be strong.  
  
You adjust the grip you have on Brian and nod for Michael to move. You can already see Brian’s car where you parked it along the street. There’s only a few yards left and then it’s a ten minute drive and a 4 hour night and then you’ll be thankful for not yielding to your broken heart.


	41. "Don't apologize. Don't say anything."

**> May 2012<**  
  
When you bring Brian’s car to a stop, he’s fast asleep. You double park in front of the entrance of your building, so you won’t have to haul him all the way down the street, and you wish you’d accepted Michael’s offer to come with you and help get Brian into bed. No amount of manhandling can rouse Brian awake and it takes you the better part of half an hour to get him upstairs and into his room. Sweating and breathing heavily, you pull off his shoes, but don’t bother with the rest.  
  
You briefly consider going to sleep yourself, but a glance at the alarm clock on Brian’s bedside table tells you Brian will have to get up in about 3 hours. No matter what happened last night or an hour ago, you don’t want him to be late on his second day interning for one of the biggest ad agencies in the area and something tells you he’s going to need all your help if he is to appear presentable in the morning.  
  
You shower, partly to wash away the sweat and grime of the day, and partly to keep yourself awake. Though you are fairly certain that you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep now anyhow; not with all the thoughts crowding your head. You sit on the couch in the tiny living room you share with Brian, the TV muted in front of you. Your keep your knees close to your body, your arms wrapped tightly around them. You want to know what Brian’s drunken babbling meant and at the same time you are equally afraid of getting your hopes up again. So you spend hours alternating between not thinking about it and comprising a list of art epochs in chronological order, complete with corresponding historical events as well as their most prominent artists and major works, to keep yourself from thinking about it when you can’t help yourself.  
  
Around 6 o’clock in the morning, just when the sky begins changing color, you get up to make a pot of coffee, making it extra strong. Armed with a large mug of the dark beverage in one hand and a glass of water and Advil in the other, you go to Brian’s room. He hasn’t moved even an inch, still lying spread-eagled across his bed, just as you left him.  
  
It’s a difficult task to rouse him, but eventually he stirs and you take extra care to keep your voice low and gentle as you say, “It’s after six. You have to get up if you don’t want to be late.”  
  
There’s a lot of unintelligible mumbling and some swearing, but in the end, you can convince him to sit up enough so you can force-feed him a couple of Advil before you let him have his coffee. You watch quietly the entire time he nurses it. From time to time, his eyes meet yours and you hold his gaze, neither of you saying anything, but the tension is thick.  
  
“So, last night,” you say, still speaking softly, aware of the headache he must be fighting with, “were you celebrating or trying to forget?”  
  
He waits before he answers, his eyes never leaving yours. “I can’t remember.”  
  
It’s a lie. But you let him get away with it because you’re not sure what calling him out on it would accomplish. “Well, then obviously, you’ve achieved the latter at the very least.” He acknowledges the attempt at a joke with a quirk of his lips, but the smile never reaches his eyes. Instead, he sets down the empty mug and gets up on his feet, still shaky, and you act on impulse, extending an arm for him to grab. But he catches himself on time and grips his head instead. The Advil probably hasn’t kicked in yet. You wince in sympathy.  
  
He rummages through his dresser, though why he even bothers, you’ve no idea. All of his clothes are still spread everywhere around the room.  
  
There’s an awkward silence that stretches too long, during which he sniffs himself, grimaces and goes to pull his shirt and pants off. His attention is focused on unbuttoning his jeans when he finally asks, “Where did you go last night? Ethan’s?”  
  
Part of your brain notices that he doesn’t pretend to not know or remember Ethan’s name and it speaks for the seriousness of the whole situation you find yourselves in. It shouldn’t, but it gives you strength to continue, knowing that he’s not going to brush it away with a mindless joke; that at the very least you both acknowledge the presence of the elephant in the room, though you may see it from different angles.  
  
“No,” you answer and make sure to hold his gaze when you say, “I broke up with Ethan. We wanted different things; it wouldn’t have worked out.” That’s not entirely true. You just used to try harder to make Brian believe that, but you don’t care anymore if Brian ever learns the real reasons. Or that you were too much of a coward to do it face to face and took the easy way out, sending Ethan an email. Brian’s expression remains stoic, not reacting to the news at all. “I went to my mom’s place.”  
  
He turns away finally to grab a clean towel from the basket that holds his fresh laundry. “How is Jennifer?”  
  
You don’t know if he really wants to know or if he’s deflecting. He’ll live if you don’t answer his question, you decide, and he must be of the same opinion because he doesn’t ask again even though you remained silent. Before he can disappear through the door, in the direction of the shower, you assume, you stop him with, “Brian, I’m sorry.”  
  
He freezes in the doorframe and doesn’t turn around when he asks back, “What for?”  
  
“Everything,” you reply, but your voice can only manage a whisper. You know he hears you, because his shoulders sag slightly.  
  
“Don’t,” he says, also barely audible.  
  
“Don’t what?”  
  
“Don’t apologize. Don’t say anything.” There’s a pause and you know that he’s not done, so you wait. You don’t have to wait long. “Don’t move out.”  
  
You’ve no idea how he knows. And there’s no time to ponder it, because Brian, still with his back to you, takes a deep breath and says, “Please.” Only then does he turn around. The anguish on his face is barely tolerable. There was a time when you swore that you’d never cause him pain; you are ashamed to admit that you’ve failed. More than the shock about your failure you’re struck by his pleading. You’ve never, not even when you were 17 years old, not ever heard Brian plead before. It takes a while for your mind to grasp the concept; you almost miss the words that follow after.  
  
“I know I haven’t been a… uhm… a good friend to you. I know that,” Brian repeats, wanting you to understand. “I’m selfish. And an asshole.” He pauses to shake his head and his lips quirk what is probably supposed to be a smile, but comes out looking more like a self-deprecating grimace. “I know you don’t like my… nightly guests.” You open your mouth to object; not that he’s wrong about it, but… Well, no, there’s no actual ‘but’ there. And you don’t get to make even one sound before he holds up his hand to stop you from saying anything. “You never say anything. You could. It’s your apartment too. But you don’t. And I don’t… We… uhm… don’t talk about it. And you probably think that I don’t appreciate it.” He bites his lip before continuing. “I do though.” Glancing down at the floor, he directs the next lines at his feet. “And I’m… I’m sorry… about Ethan. What I said about him. And about you and him. I was… I had no… Fuck!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I was… I didn’t like it,” he tells his feet. “Him. With you. I was…”  
  
Jealous? You can actually feel your heart stop beating at that. You stare at him, probably dumbly and with your jaw hanging open, feeling your world tilt to the side. “Last night… You said…” You take a deep breath, buying yourself some time as to how to proceed.  
  
But Brian cuts in, “Goddamn. Fuck.” You know the swear isn’t directed at you. “Justin, whatever I said last night, I... I was drunk and… inse…” He reconsiders and rephrases, “Well, drunk. Out of my fucking mind drunk. I don’t actually really remember everything that happened last night, but… Okay.” Another deep breath and you watch him fight to get the words out; wait until he does. “I missed you. You were... I… And I really fucking missed you.”  
  
Panic. That’s all you can think of. Every word out of his mouth washes over you, either hotly with hope or ice-cold with dread. Why is it that these moments always catch you off-guard? Why can’t you for once be prepared for them? You thought you knew what you were getting into when you entered his room half an hour ago, but just like years ago, he can turn your world upside down with one single sentence.  
  
He squints at you, probably trying to read the play of expressions on your face. “I mean, you were my best friend,” he explains. “I miss my best friend. And I want him back. I promise I’ll be a better friend from now on. Okay? Let me be a better friend?”  
  
Your decision to leave shatters, as does your world.  _Friend_. Of course. You knew all along that’s what your relationship is about for Brian; yet you allowed yourself to hope. Again. The next moment, you berate yourself, not for the first time.  
  
Brian’s friendship has meant too much to you to be jeopardized over something as trivial as your feelings for him, even if you do believe that there’s nothing trivial about them. You breathe deeply and try, for the millionth time, to accept that there’s never going to be more than there is now. Friendship – that’s all he’s offering. And it’s so much, why can’t it be enough? It’s so much more than anyone else is getting from him. When will you finally stop asking the universe for more, when, clearly, the universe thinks that it’s for the best just the way it is? It’s just so hard to let go of a belief that ever since you’ve been 17 you’ve carried in front of you like a shield or a mantra: That you were meant for each other.  
  
You take a moment to collect yourself, close your eyes briefly to find your center again and when you open them, they land on Brian’s pleading eyes. And just like that you know exactly what you are going to do. You could never withstand Brian’s pleading. Not that Brian has done much pleading in the past. Or ever. That’s why you are defenseless against it. So you agree, of course.  
  
“Yes, I’ll stay,” you mumble. Then, in a clearer voice, you add, “Of course I’ll stay.”  
  
You move out one week later.


	42. "Moulin Rouge? Seriously? That's so... gay."

**> May 2012<**  
  
The next few days after the talk that didn’t go anything like you planned, are a bit stiff, both of you going out of your way to be civil and trying too hard. After five days of walking on eggshells, you’re ready to throw in the towel. Brian hasn’t brought home a single trick and you’re seriously contemplating asking him to, just to have some sort of normalcy back. Luckily, you don’t have to. It seems as though Brian isn’t happy with your newfound peace either, because Saturday afternoon he comes home from his fitness training carrying an unopened bottle of tequila. He holds it between thumb and forefinger and lets it dangle in front of your face while waggling his eyebrows.  
  
“What do you say, Sunshine?” he asks.  
  
“Aren’t you going out?” you ask. It is Saturday after all.  
  
“Nah,” he waves it away, “this week’s been hell. Who knew partying while keeping a full time job would be so exhausting?” You grin, thankful that he doesn’t list your ‘talk’ among the things that have made the past week hell. “But,” he singsongs, “staying doesn’t mean we can’t have a little party of our own, right?”  
  
You smile and nod. “Movie?” you ask.  
  
“Not—”  
  
“—Yellow Submarine,” you cut in. “Yeah, I know.” And just like that, the ice is broken. You’re Brian and Justin again – ex-boyfriends, friends, roommates, potentially more, but you keep that to yourself.  
  
You rummage through your sad because small DVD collection and pull out a disk. “Yes!” you exclaim, waving the case above your head. Brian grabs your wrist to still it so he can take a look at the cover and groans.  
  
“Moulin Rouge? Seriously, Sunshine? That’s so… gay.”  
  
It’s also the only movie released  _after_  the 1970-s. Brian’s Marlon Brando fable doesn’t make for a very varied selection. “Shut up,” you say and laugh. “Besides, you’ve got tequila to tide you over the sappy parts.”  
  
Brian doesn’t argue. Instead, he plops down on the ratty couch in front of the tiny television set, the now unscrewed bottle in one hand and two plastic cups in the other. You start the movie and sit down beside him. The couch is so small, not even a real loveseat, that you can’t help but touch thighs. But that’s okay; the heat from his body is welcome after the polite coolness of the last days.  
  
By the time Roxanne enters the stage, you’re completely captivated by the story and the cry of the violin. You miss how it happens, but suddenly Brian’s hand is on your knee and it’s inching slowly higher. Strangely enough, your first reaction is to glance to the bottle on the floor – it’s half-empty. Only then do you let your eyes follow the path of his hand on your leg. Your brain ceases all function for a few moments that seem like hours to you. His touch is so familiar yet so perfectly foreign at the same time. It’s those two conflicting impressions that let you take your time before your eyes travel upwards and to his face. His eyes, though a bit glassy, are focused on the screen where Ewan McGregor is belting out his part of the song and from the corner of your eyes, you can see Brian’s pants tenting slightly. You know Brian finds the actor hot, which is why he’s never protesting too much when you put in the movie, but you’ve never gotten this reaction out of him before and you’re at a loss about what to do.  
  
Your body meanwhile has its own ideas and is already tingling with want and anticipation of Brian’s fingers on bare skin instead of just feeling him through layers of clothes. It won’t be long now before you lose all your faculties.  
  
“Brian?” you mumble, while you still can. “What are you doing?”  
  
His hand cups your dick and he chuckles, his eyes still on the movie. “Your boyfriends must have been doing something wrong if you don’t know.”  
  
His body turns towards you, his head tilting down to nuzzle at the side of your neck. Before his lips connect with the skin there, you notice his eyes grazing across your face, but it’s just a brief flicker before they shut and then he’s too close to see his face at all. His lips are as soft as you remember them, warm and slightly damp, and they feel heavenly on your neck. His tongue unerringly finds its way to the most sensitive spot under your jaw and you have to bite your lips not to whimper helplessly at the contact while you wonder if he went for it because he remembers, too, or if it was just a random coincidence. Soon, all thinking slows down as your brain feels like molasses. Brian’s nose is buried in the hollow at the base of your neck and he inhales deeply, a sound of pure, primal lust escaping his throat.  
  
You push on his shoulders, wanting… no,  _needing_  to look at him. But he resists your hands. You try again, more insistent this time. “Brian.”  
  
He lets up from you then, the clavicle that he’s been suckling on feeling cool as it is exposed to air and his heavy breath washes over the wet spot. But instead of looking at you, his eyes are on your mouth, staring at it hypnotically. “What—” you try again.  
  
“Being reckless?” he asks, diving for your lips. You turn your head sideways and his kiss lands somewhere on your ear. He doesn’t seem fazed by it and goes to work on your earlobe. It doesn’t make thinking any easier. You have no idea what to make of his reply. Your body has made up its mind already and is betraying you while you try to keep a level head about it. It feels like you’ve already been overruled. Still, there’s something that holds you back; something that doesn’t allow you to just tumble head first into this.  
  
You know that what is happening is wrong, but your brain is hard pressed right now to come up with a reason as to why. Why not just let it happen? You’ve wanted Brian’s touch for so long now; dreamed of it, imagined it, fantasized about it while you were jerking off under the shower. Finally, it’s not a fantasy or a memory anymore – it’s real. And yet… This is not how you pictured it to happen. In your head, the touches were personal, accompanied by Brian’s voice, soft and gentle, just as you remembered it. In your head, Brian was looking at you; couldn’t stop gazing into your eyes while you were getting lost in his. In your head, you weren’t just a trick.  
  
“You’re drunk,” you declare and stare at the ceiling while pulling air into your lungs, trying to ignore the intricate pattern his tongue is painting along the line of your neck.  
  
“I know,” he returns and pulls back again to study your face before he dives down again. There’s something in his eyes… a glint that makes you realize he’s not as drunk as he pretends to be. But then again, you’re not as sober as you act and the treacherous voice in your head whispers that maybe this is the opportunity to change the status quo. He breaks eye contact and his mouth is busy biting on the skin behind your ear again while you still try to bring order to your conflicting thoughts.  
  
He smells so good. Brian always smells so good. Even when he arrives home sweaty and drunk, after a night of dancing and fucking, reeking of booze, cigarettes and other men, he still smells so good. And his mouth is right there. You’d just have to turn your head a fraction of an inch and your lips would touch. So you do.  
  
And just like that you’re seventeen again. There’re things that you want, desires that are so strong they tear your insides apart, and risks you are willing to take. There’s nervousness and carelessness and the tinny taste of adrenaline on your tongue. It’s all there in his kiss. Brian tastes like youth and promises and hope. And you don’t care for that moment of hesitation when he doesn’t immediately respond to you, because it only adds to the illusion that you’re both young and inexperienced and so very, very in love.  
  
Only, that’s not how it really is. The only one inexperienced here is you. And you’re rudely reminded of the reason why. You two are friends now. And nothing else. You are also genetically incapable of compartmentalizing your feelings from your actions while he has had yearlong practice doing exactly that. This is the point where you and he diverge so completely in your basic nature and one of the many reasons why you are nothing more but friends.  
  
“Huh?” he mumbles back, lips against your skin. It’s only at his question that you realize you must have said something out loud. You’ve no idea what exactly, but whatever it was, you might as well say the rest of what’s going on in your head.  
  
You grab his head between your hands and hold it in a way to force him to look at you. He does, but his eyes linger on your lips and do not stray further than that. “This… This is beyond what is allowed between… friends.”  
  
Finally his gaze comes up to look you in the eyes. It’s not steady, though whether he wavers because of the alcohol or because of the emotions, you can’t say for sure. It takes him a moment to respond and he shakes his head a little before he does. “Fuck that, Justin. Who makes these rules? We can make our own.” As if to prove his words to be right, he presses a palm against your half-hard cock and tries to lick a swath across your temple, but you adjust the grip on the sides of your face and keep him in his place. His eyes look pleadingly at you, but you don’t know why. Or maybe you do and it’s just not something you can give him without reservations. Though you’ve wanted to be his for a far too long time now.  
  
“There’s no coming back from this,” you whisper, not because you want to make it difficult for him to hear you, but because you can’t trust your voice. He looks at you for a long time, searching your eyes and you hope he can see the meaning of your words in them. You’ll never be just friends after this. You hope he knows that. You hope you’re gonna be more.  
  
“No apologies? No regrets?” he asks.  
  
You hesitate only a moment before you nod once. “No apologies. No regrets.”  
  
It’ll turn out to be a lie. But you’ll learn later that he wasn’t honest with you either, although there’s no real comfort in the knowledge. For the moment though you’re drunk on this – the closeness, the chance to touch and taste, and to live a fantasy that you already gave up believing would ever come true. You respond to Brian’s kisses with a passion that reveals too well how long you’ve been suppressing your desire to do just that. You nip at his neck, weighing his actual taste against the one you remember. There’s differences there, but they’re just nuances; mostly, he tastes exactly the same – somewhat more grown-up maybe, but still wild and untamable and dangerous.  
  
Brian’s hesitating to respond and at first you think it’s because he lets you explore his body. A sudden thought strikes you then. Maybe he’s not allowing himself to let go because he expects you to change your mind, to shut him down? Your movements become desperate as you claw at him more and eventually he realizes that you’re not going to stop him, so he dives back in with renewed vigor. There’s hunger and craving and an urgency that makes all movements awkward and sloppy. Mouths collide off-center, everything’s wetter than normal, hands fumble when they grope for zippers, and buttons get torn off favorite shirts. It is considerably less graceful than you expected from someone with Brian’s experience to be, but it’s perfect.  
  
There’s unflattering slurping sounds when he finally takes you in his mouth and wanton and too loud moans in response that under different circumstances you’d be incredibly embarrassed about. There’s gagging when he tries to take too much too fast and it’s followed by a cringe and a blush which confirms that this isn’t normal for him either. This is definitely not a reenactment of one of your fantasies; this is real and it’s happening right now. For a moment you’re completely flashed by this thought.  
  
But overlaying all clumsiness and embarrassment is the rush of hot blood, of enthusiasm and joy that wants to bubble out of you in nervous giggles. You bite your tongue to keep them in, but then Brian’s mouth slips lower and his tongue is suddenly right  _there_  and everything you’ve been trying to keep inside just tumbles out. Only, what leaves your mouth isn’t giggling, it’s a low and growled, “Fuck,” and Brian’s responding hum resonates across your entire body, making it shake uncontrollably. His tongue pushes inside, past your barriers and it’s a sensation so new and foreign, it makes your body freeze with the intimacy of it.  
  
“Slow down,” you manage to pant. “Brian, slow down.”  
  
He raises his head and lets one finger take the place of his tongue, apparently not wanting to waste even a second. You know where this is headed; you’ve known ever since you agreed to his conditions of ‘no apologies, no regrets’. That’s why you need to tell him. And you need to do it now before it’s too late.  
  
He looks expectantly at you, waiting. His fingers, because now there’s two of them, are moving slowly in and out and make it so much more difficult to concentrate on words. “Will you…” You start again after clearing your throat, “Will you be… careful?”  
  
At his uncomprehending gaze you add, “I’ve never…” Your voice trembles and you search for words, but you don’t need to finish. You realize that when his body suddenly turns to stone on top of yours. His fingers slip out with a wet popping sound in the ensuing silence that makes you blush.  
  
It takes a moment for the news to sink in and when it does, Brian’s demeanor changes. His motions become slow, deliberate and… loving, though you’d never say this out loud.  
  
After this, there’s lots of kissing and praising and reverent touching. He’s treating your body like it’s made of precious porcelain. His touch is soft and gentle, but it doesn’t take away from the power and purpose of his actions. And then it’s exactly how it’s always been in your dreams.


	43. "The debris of your own mistakes."

**> May 2012<**  
  
The first few minutes after you wake up you indulge in the twilight world of your not-yet-fully-awake mind. But it quickly becomes clear that you’re not dreaming and you really are wrapped up in Brian’s arms. The embrace is familiar which doesn’t surprise you because you dream about it almost every night. Back when you were a teenager you used to sometimes wake up enveloped in him and after he was gone, you were afraid to forget how his arms felt around you, so you made yourself remember every day until it’s become part of your nightly dreams.  
  
He’s still clingy when he sleeps. But he doesn’t snore. When you were teenagers, Brian used to snore in his sleep. It wasn’t very loud; more like a wheezing sound, comforting somehow. He doesn’t make that sound anymore. You wouldn’t be surprised to learn he got rid of it simply by sheer will. You miss it a little; not so much the fact that it’s gone, but that it happened without your involvement. What else will be different once you’re both awake enough to face the day, after last night?  
  
You try to imagine best case scenarios, but all you can think of is how long it will take you to pack your shit together and moved out of this place. You guess everything could go back to how it was before you’ve run into him again. Your life was sort of bland but... constant back then; constant in the sense of missing any and all highs or lows. But that can be a good thing, too, right? Maybe you can go back to that. Or maybe things don’t have to change at all. This night can forever remain a slip of judgment. Maybe you and Brian can agree to forget it and go back to being friends. You’re equal parts terrified and happy about this prospect. But it’s an illusion, because things already  _are_ different.  
  
“It’s too early for this shit. Stop!” Brian’s voice is muffled by your hair, but it’s clear that he’s not simply talking in his sleep, but addressing you.  
  
“I’m not doing anything,” you protest.  
  
“You’re packing in your head.”  
  
You don’t look at him - you can’t. Gently trying to extract yourself from his embrace, you pull back and fix the fold in the bedspread, playing idly with it. He’s right of course. That’s why you can’t look him in the eye.  
  
“This doesn’t have to change anything,” he says, echoing your thoughts from only moments ago.  
  
“It already has,” you tell him and can’t keep the sadness out of your voice.  
  
He doesn’t reply immediately, taking a moment to think it over. “Not if we let it.” You feel his eyes on you and look up. Suddenly you’re too aware that you’re naked. Strangely, the fact that he’s naked too doesn’t bother you even half as much; you’re probably too used to seeing him without clothes on. But you feel bare. Defenseless and vulnerable. “It was just one night,” Brian continues. “We can forget this ever happened. Go back to being friends.”  
  
No, wearing clothes probably wouldn’t have softened the blow either. How is it that you still haven’t learned your lesson? How much more often will your face have to hit the pavement before you learn to brace yourself for it?  
  
  
You get up from the bed and act busy, pretending to look for clothes. They’re not there and you remember that you both relocated to his bedroom after shedding them on the couch. You quickly ponder whether to walk out of the room like this or if you should throw on a sheet or something; maybe one of Brian’s shirts.  
  
“Justin--”  
  
“No,” you jump in, not wanting to hear it. You don’t want to be persuaded into being friends again. You’ve made the decision so many times already; it’s time to finally act on it. “No, Brian. We cannot be friends. Not anymore. Not when one of us wants to be more.”  
  
There, you said it. It’s now out there and it’s his turn. You look expectantly at him, not really sure where you’ve got the guts from, but he’s not responding. He doesn’t even look at you, instead staring at the floor, looking almost embarrassed. And it’s this exactly that makes you let go - let go of hope, and dignity, and... him.  
  
You nod sadly, quietly acknowledging the reality that he doesn’t want you, is embarrassed by your admission or your feelings, possibly both.  
  
It was hard enough to come to terms with the fact that he’s not interested in you because you’re not his type. But knowing that, on some level, he could find you attractive but simply doesn’t see you as anything more… anyone to have a relationship with… It’s going to be close to impossible to accept that.  
  
Your messenger bag is crammed full already when he emerges, wearing only a pair of sweatpants and carrying the odor of last night’s activities with him. He leans against the door jamb of your room, quietly watching you for a few moments before asking, “Where will you go? Where will you live?”  
  
You shrug, not turning around. “A dorm maybe. It’s not too late to apply for a room.” You haven’t really taken that into account, but now that the thought’s in your head, you put it out there.  
  
He releases a humorless laugh. “You can’t live in a dorm. You hate sharing living space.”  
  
“It won’t break me,” you answer. But this might.  
  
You dawdle because he’s still blocking the doorway and you don’t want to squeeze yourself past him and risk physical contact. Your nerves are too frail for that.  
  
“Would it help if I said I’m s--”  
  
“No,” you cut in again, “it wouldn’t.” You don’t want to hear it. The last thing you want is him apologizing for what happened last night. Because it isn’t something that you allowed to happen; you wanted it too. Probably more than he did. In fact, you’re certain of it.  
  
Finally, you gather all of your courage and turn around. Your eyes stay mostly down and you only allow them to travel up to his chin, not daring to look higher, not wanting to see the expression on his face. You fumble with the strap of the bag over your shoulder and look pointedly at the doorway which he’s currently blocking.  
  
Before he moves aside, he takes another breath and tries one last time, “You said you wouldn’t leave. You promised.”  
  
“Obviously I didn’t know what I was promising.” You figure, what’s one more lie on top of everything? “You know what, Brian? You made promises too. Guess we’re both not trustworthy.”  
  
He steps aside and lets you pass after that. And after that it’s up to you to pick up the pieces of your life from the debris of your own mistakes.


	44. "I've lived plenty."

**> November 2012<**  
  
Summer comes and goes and by the time that trees have lost their leaves you’ve become a model recluse. Now, with winter knocking on the door, it’s easier to pretend that it’s because of the weather that you stay inside a lot; or under your blanket, to be exact. Baoling, the girl you’ve met through a ‘roommate wanted’ ad on the college bulletin board and are now sharing an apartment with – because Brian was right, you would never be able to share a dorm room with anyone – has watched you grow anti-social for a little over four months and has recently announced that she’s not going to take it anymore. She’s Chinese and you often tease her about being a cliché of an Asian overachiever, but you both know that that’s only half the truth. Baoling studies hard, but she parties hard too and lately she’s made it her mission to schlepp you to every party she’s invited to, which are many.  
  
She’s younger than you and also petite; it should be a waltz putting her into her place, but she’s feisty and once she’s on a mission she becomes a real pit bull about it.  
  
“We’re about to be snowed in,” you try to argue in an attempt of getting out of going to the floor party her girlfriends of Holland Hall are hosting tonight.  
  
She throws a perfunctory look outside and waves away your fake concerns with a throw-away motion of her hand. “I hope we get snowed in,” she replies enthusiastically, already in love with the idea. “It’ll make for a nice story to tell your grandchildren someday. No risk, no fun. Live a little.”  
  
“I’ve lived plenty,” you mutter while exchanging your sweater for a warmer one, in case you really do get snowed in.  
  
“Yeah? When was that exactly? When you’ve been moping your way through Europe?”  
  
You choose not to reply to that. Sometimes she reminds you too much of Daphne. You knew it was wrong to allow those two to meet the last time Daphne visited you in Pittsburgh. You secretly suspect that they’ve somehow managed to exchange numbers and possibly teamed up to force you out of your self-imposed solitude.  
  
“This is not going to help,” you complain once you reached the party venue. You have to raise your voice to be heard.  
  
“It won’t do you harm either,” Bao counters. “Try to forget Brian for a little while, okay?” she adds in a softer tone. She’s never met Brian, or she would know how epically impossible to execute her request is. But you just nod and half-heartedly resign to try to actually have fun tonight.  
  
You’re not exactly sure when fun has become equal with alcohol, but minutes later you find yourself at the makeshift bar someone set up on a rickety table placed along the wall between two dorm rooms. You drink something that tastes like a terrible concoction of rum and vodka that someone tried to improve by adding more rum and vodka to the mix.  
  
The second sign that coming here tonight was a bad idea (the first being the steadily falling snow outside) is the blond head you spot in a dimly lit room on the exact opposite side of the hall. All of the dorm rooms have been wedged to stay open, so party guests can move freely from one to the next. You can only see the head’s profile and other people keep flitting back and forth in front of you, hindering your vision, but you’re pretty sure that it’s Lindsay. Of course spotting Lindsay at a party does not necessarily mean that Brian is close, but the fact alone that she’s here makes you think of him which defeats the whole purpose of you coming here.  
  
It’s not that you’re apprehensive about meeting her, or Brian, for that matter, even though you haven’t so far; not once ever since you moved out. When you were clearing out your things, you even timed your trips to yours and Brian’s apartment so that you wouldn’t run into him. It’s just that you’re not okay yet. And you really want to be okay when you run into him. Or her. But you’re still waiting for the pain to subside and for the fun to return to your life, though Bao has been an excellent stand-in so far.  
  
It’s been six months and life hasn’t been easy. You sort of feel like a brat thinking that. It’s not like you have it all that bad; substantially, you want for nothing. But your days have been tiring. Every morning you have to force yourself out of bed, drag your ass to classes that you will yourself to sit through; you have to remind yourself to eat, because if it wasn’t for the reminders, or for Baoling, or your mother, you’d forget; and by the time evening rolls around you’re just always  _so exhausted_.  
  
You know you’re a coward, but you’re relieved about not having run into Brian yet. Or any of Brian-related people. Maybe, you try to convince yourself, Lindsay is a good place to start. Whether it’s this realization you’ve arrived at just now or the alcohol that makes your movements bold, you’ve no idea, but all of a sudden you find yourself taking tentative steps in the direction of the room you spotted the person you believe to be Lindsay in.  
  
“…and want to stay here?” The voice that carries over the common party sounds is familiar and you know for sure now that it’s Lindsay. You position yourself close to a small group that is gathered in the hall close to the door. They’re currently discussing a recent ball game of sorts and are doing this very loudly which makes it so much harder to hear the voices in the adjacent room. If it wasn’t for the dubious vodka/rum cocktail, you’d feel stupid, not to mention creepy, spying on a girl you barely know.  
  
What you hear next, however, quickly makes you forget any and all reservations. It’s just an indistinctive grunt, but it’s male and… so familiar.  
  
“Brian, you can’t avoid the issue forever. Eventually you’re gonna have to do something about it,” you hear Lindsay say and your heart misses a beat when your worst fears are confirmed. Your first impulse is too flee, but your feet are rooted to the spot. It will never cease to amaze you how you can tell by an incomprehensible sound alone that he’s not okay. You think, put to the test, you’d probably even be able to tell how much alcohol he has in him just by listening to him. You don’t want to admit that this level of familiarity still causes a warm tingle to break out across your skin. You’re so not over him; you’re not even close. If Brian knew, he’d call you pathetic.  
  
“’ve no idea whatcha talkin’ ‘bout.” It’s so unmistakably Brian, it makes your heart constrict painfully with how much you miss him. He sounds drunk, or at least like he’s well underway there. You strain your ears to hear Lindsay’s reply, but a sudden outbreak of maniacal laughter from the group you’re sort of hiding behind cancels every other sound out for a second. You swear internally and inch closer to the open door. The last thing you catch before Lindsay emerges from the room is Brian’s grunted, “I don’t.”  
  
At the door, Lindsay pauses and you catch her throwing a sad look inside before she reaches for the door, releases the book that’s been used to hold it open and pulls it close, though it remains a little ajar. She heads in the opposite direction from where you’re standing and you peek inside, careful not to be seen. The only light illuminating the dark interior is the halogen bulb under one of the bookcases that doesn’t scatter far and leaves the rest in relative darkness. You can see a vague outline of Brian draped over a swivel chair, but otherwise the room is empty. You stand there, contemplating for a few moments whether you should go inside. But what would you say? Hello? I missed you, did you miss me? And where would that lead you except back into a cycle that not only made you miserable but also depressed and worthless and a liar.  
  
You wait too long.  
  
Before you can make up your mind to leave, Brian’s voice can be heard again. His voice barely audible, he’s obviously talking to himself. It’s still slurred, but you can hear him perfectly. “I don’t love ya. Ya hear me, Jussin? I. Don’t. Love. You.”  
  
There’s a moment of shock, a split second where you think he’s talking to you; and then there’s the plummeting. It’s like free fall and you wait for the crash. It follows immediately after. And you can’t stop the tears. You try to gulp them down, but there’s so many of them. You don’t want people to see and push through the crowds, trying to reach a bathroom. But you don’t know where the next one is located and your face must be a mess, because people start to notice you, a few of them asking if you’re alright. ‘No,’ you want to scream at them. Stupid, blind idiots. All of them.  
  
You’ve known of course. But you haven’t known-known. And hearing it in such candid words, spoken with such a bluntness, just breaks something inside of you. It isn’t even that you’d still hoped, because you know you haven’t. It’s just that… you feel… rejected. It’s not a completely new feeling; you’ve been a loner almost your entire high school career. But being rejected by Brian, by the only person who’s ever meant anything to you, weighs heavier.


	45. "A strange dream."

**> November 2012<**  
  
Later, you won’t know how you got home. You will wake up in your bed, in the middle of the night, and you’ll remember a dream. A strange dream. You will dream of Brian and you’ll see the past months and years flash before you, every single minute since the day you’ve run into him while apartment hunting. But you won’t see it through your own eyes; you won’t think your own thoughts. You won’t be Justin.  
  
You will see him pull out of a dance with you. But this time, you’ll realize that it’s not because he doesn’t want to dance with you; it’s because he wants it too much.  
  
You will see him be an asshole to Ethan. But it’s not because he’s angry with you; it’s because he’s jealous.  
  
You will see him lie to you, the same way you’ve been lying to him, though you prefer to call it ‘keeping secrets’. Not because he wants to hurt you, but because he’s afraid to tell you the truth.  
  
You’ll see parallels where you’ve only seen disappointment before.  
  
You will see his drunken declaration of not loving you for what it is: a fruitless attempt to convince himself of something that he doesn’t believe in.  
  
And it will all make sense and the picture will right itself. The world will not stop turning, no fanfares will sound, no angels will sing, but you will breathe easier. You will wake up with a shy ray of hope glimmering within you. You will smile and it won’t be forced and it won’t feel like a difficult task anymore.  
  
You’ll call Daphne in the middle of the night whose only comment will be, “By George, I think he’s got it,” before she hangs up on you. You’ll tell Baoling, needing a sounding board for your theories. You’ll tell her about high school, about Europe, about college and the reasons for coming back, about the night six months ago, and the nickname ‘Sunshine’ and she’ll nod and understand, because you won’t be able to stop smiling.


	46. "This is not how we end."

**> November 2012<**  
  
It takes you exactly four days and ten or so hours to get your nerves in order and to come up with a game plan. When you finally do decide to act on it, you dress carefully, going over everything in your head. You revisit every conversation you’ve had with Brian in the last 15 months for the umpteenth time, searching for faults in your logic. You can’t find any that are strong enough to distract you from your plan. The plan itself, however, is fairly simple: improvise.  
  
You’re early. You’ve never seen Babylon so empty before. The first doubts about choosing this venue for your confrontation make themselves known, but it’s easy to quiet them with some liquid courage which is very appreciated right now. An hour later, Brian’s still not there even though it’s Friday night and this is his usual going out time. Your body is pumping adrenaline non-stop and it makes you jittery. You decide to get rid of some pent up energy by going out onto the dance floor. Getting lost in the beat helps to wipe away some of your nervousness and you feel yourself growing calmer. For the first time ever you feel really good about this, and about yourself. You’ve always been encouraging yourself to take your life into your own hands, but now is the first time you feel like you’re really doing it. Maybe it’s the music, or the dancing, or the natural high of feeling in control of your own life, but you’re suddenly filled with hope. The shy ray has grown into actual, tangible hope.  
  
You don’t really notice how time passes, you’re so caught up in the music. You feel eyes on you. Well, actually, you’ve felt eyes on you all evening, but this time it feels different. You slow down your movements and look around until you see him. He’s standing off to the side of the dance floor, frozen in place and a slightly angry expression on his face. You try not to let it deter you.  
  
For a moment or two you just both stand there, not moving, just staring at each other. Eventually you tell your feet to move and once you do so is he. His stride is faster, angrier, and when he reaches you, he grabs your elbow and drags you, not too gently, away from the main throng of gyrating bodies.  
  
“What the fuck are you doing here? Why did you come back?” He’s in your face, almost yelling over the music.  
  
Your first impulse is to say you don’t know and to run away. But the voice inside your head won’t let you, so you take your time answering and study him, nervously biting your lip. He’s definitely angry; you think you can understand that. When you’re trying to forget someone, you don’t want the same someone flaunting themselves in your face. Then you realize something and suddenly his anger isn’t scary anymore; it calms you, because it confirms your theory.  
  
You take a deep breath and start, a little unsure at first, “Because it’s still all about you?” You can’t help it that it comes out a question, but you don’t let it stop you. “Because it always will be? Because we… it... felt unfinished. Because this is not how we end.”  
  
You can tell that your answer steals his thunder. The tension in his muscles dissipates instantly, his postury sags slightly, relaxing a little. Where there’s been rage only moments ago, there’s now honest curiosity and a tiny spark of confusion slowly making place for… hope? You’re not completely sure but you think you can even detect the tiniest hint of a smile on his face; at the very least the beginnings of one. He tilts his head to the side and doesn’t tear his eyes away from yours when he asks, “How do we end?”  
  
Nothing to lose and everything to gain. “We don’t.” You bite your lower lip and hold your breath. However, he simply continues to stare at you, slightly dumbfounded and blinking a bit more often than usual. You don’t know if he’s just surprised or if he doesn’t understand what you’re trying to say. Mentally shaking off your insecurities, you grab his face in your hands and press your lips against his and kiss him like you’ve never kissed anyone before. You pour everything into this kiss, open yourself so completely to him, leaving no room for any more misunderstandings.  
  
When you pull back he’s slightly dazed, but you can see in his eyes that he’s there with you.  
  
“Why didn’t you go after me?” you ask. “Back when we ran into each other again while apartment hunting. Why didn’t you go after me again?”  
  
“Thought you didn’t want me.”  
  
And if that isn’t the most ridiculous of all assumptions… As if there would ever exist a universe in which you wouldn’t want Brian. “Why?”  
  
“You left me once, just like that. Without a note. Didn’t want it to happen again.”  
  
“I didn’t leave you,” you whisper. “I’d never—” It’s too painful to relive the past. But you have to if you’re  
going to move forward. There’s something you’ve got to get off your chest first though.  
  
“I used to be so mad at you,” you admit, but you don’t say that you used to be mad at him up until one minute ago. You don’t know what happened to your anger, but it’s gone now, making room for sadness and the empty knowledge of just how much time has been wasted. “Couldn’t you have waited an hour? Just sixty minutes longer?”  
  
Of course he knows exactly what you’re talking about. “I did.” He looks away briefly, but his eyes return to your face a second later. “I sat on your doorstep until it got dark.”  
  
Your eyes grow large at the realization. How? No, that couldn’t be. But of course… You’ve missed each other. All these years and all that pain and it was just a matter of simple localities? The world is an unfair place, you realize not for the first time.  
  
“My dad died,” you blurt out.  
  
Brian’s mouth opens, but you interrupt, “Don’t say I’m sorry.” You wouldn’t be able to take it; don’t want these old wounds tearing open again. The timing of your father’s death ruined your life three years ago. You spent enough time coming to terms with that; practicing anger management under pressure. You wouldn’t be able to take Brian’s pity or sympathy for a person who did this to you. To both of you.  
  
Brian nods and says, “I didn’t know.”  
  
Now it’s your turn to nod. He couldn’t have.  
  
There’s minutes of silence where both of you can’t do much more but stare at each other, allowing the years and hurts to melt away. His eyes are glassy when you take his hand in yours and you tilt your head, wondering if you’re seeing right. “Are those tears?” you ask gently, wanting to know but trying not to put him on the spot.  
  
Brian just shrugs.  
  
“I remember the last time you cried,” you say. He told you once, not too long ago, that he hasn’t cried in almost four years. Later, you did the math and came to the conclusion that it must have been the day he dry-sobbed in your car, after being kicked off the soccer team. You want to lift the mood a little by reminding him how things have changed for the better.  
  
But his answer surprises you. “You can’t.”  
  
“But I do,” you tell him. “It was in my car—”  
  
“It wasn’t,” he interrupts.  
  
It takes a moment for the realization to sink in. “Apparently there are a lot of things we don’t know about each other.”  
  
“We’ve got a lot of time to change that.” Brian’s reply is tentative, but the fireworks it sparks in you are impressive. But while you’re on the topic, you want to finish the story.  
  
“My dad…,” you start, “he… When I got home to get my stuff, you know, before I was supposed to meet you? My mom was there and she told me that my dad had died and we went into the hospital and I couldn’t get away on time. There was just so much shit to do. And my mom… She… I got into the car and drove to the meeting point as soon as I could. But I was an hour late and you weren’t there. So I waited. And waited, and waited.” You pause to swallow down the tears that you hadn’t noticed you’ve been crying. Brian’s hand comes up and his thumb swipes your cheek dry. The motion feels more intimate than anything else you’ve ever shared with him. He’s looking at you, really looking at you, seeing into your very core. And you let him; you’ve got nothing to hide. Not anymore. “Then… Then I drove to your house and I waited again. But you didn’t come home that night and so I went back to my place and… I was alone. I’ve been alone from that day on.”  
  
Brian just nods. His hand that had wiped away your tears now warmly at your neck.  
  
“I didn’t go home. Not before long after midnight,” you finish weakly, knowing that it doesn’t matter now.  
  
“I thought you changed your mind because you suddenly realized that you were going to throw your entire future away for a high school dropout.”  
  
“Never!” you reply fervently. “I spent the following days hanging out at every joint you’ve ever hung out at.”  
  
“I was gone by then.” He shrugs and explains, “I couldn’t go back home, obviously. And I couldn’t go to your place because you didn’t want me.” You’re about to protest, but he shushes you, knowing better now. “So I left. Took all the money I had and bought a bus ticket. It only got me to Harrisburg.”  
  
Brian takes a few minutes to explain how he was forced to work two jobs to make money; how he slept in the bus station for the first few nights, pretending to wait for his connection; how he finally could afford a cheap and shabby motel room; how he eventually pulled himself together and found a better job and was able to afford going back to school and getting a high school diploma.  
  
“Suddenly I was applying to colleges; something I already gave up on. And I had to decide where I wanted to go.”  
  
“And you came back to Pittsburgh of all places. Why?”  
  
Brian shifts from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable. His face scrunches up in embarrassment and you know rationally what it means, but you’re afraid to think it. “You came back… because of…  _me_?” He shrugs a one-shouldered shrug. “But… You… You couldn’t have known.” Another shrug. No, he did not know. But he’d hoped. He came back to Pittsburgh for the same reason you did. You want to laugh and to cry at the same time. It reminds you so much of a conversation you had once with him; years ago, back when things were still good.  
  


  
**

  
  
It started out innocently, with Brian stating that all people had daddy issues. He was just trying to downplay the situation with his own father, but your immediate and heartfelt agreement made him suspicious enough that you felt the need to explain. You didn’t want to reveal the entire truth, about your dad being in a coma. For some reason you felt embarrassed about it. Not that your dad was in a coma, but that you hadn’t yet been to visit him. It made you feel guilty and you didn’t want to be discussing this, so you made it seem like you were simply estranged from your father.  
  
“See, opposed to you, I had a great childhood,” you began. Brian nodded, his eyes firmly on the cigarette he was trying to spike with some freshly acquired pot. “My dad and I had a lot of things we did together. Each year he took me out to a fishing trip. Neither he nor I were very fond of fishing. And he wasn’t even really good at it, so we spent most of the time sitting in a boat and staring out at the horizon. We didn’t even talk much, but it was nice, you know? Like we didn’t have to, to share the moment together.”  
  
Brian looked up at you, gave you a smile and a nod that was asking you to continue. “He tried to teach me basketball, but I was so very terrible at it, he gave up eventually. I remember the way he consoled me when I fell off the bike and hurt my knee the first time he let go of the saddle. He was so heartbroken about it, feeling so guilty, like he’d betrayed my trust. I remember how he took me out for ice-cream on my birthday, even when it was a school day. He’d let me miss the first period just so we could have ice-cream for breakfast. Afterwards he always wrote me a note and we never told Mom.” You fell silent at that, reminiscing.  
  
Brian cleared his throat and patted your knee awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s easier having grown up with a dad like mine.”  
  
You regarded him for a long time, then replied, “No. that’s just it – it isn’t. All of my,” you pulled your face into a mirthless smile to indicate sarcasm, “’wonderful’ memories of him aren’t worth shit. They were all empty promises. The son my father used to love and to spend time with wasn’t me. It was an image he had of me; something he wanted to see instead of something that I truly was. He lied to me from the very beginning; only I didn’t know until I turned 17. I thought I was safe. I thought I could come out to him and nothing would change, because we had this… this connection, you know?”  
  
Brian looked at you with dawning understanding and compassion.  
  
“He left the moment the picture of the life as he wanted it tilted. And it was so easy for him. But I learned something from it.”  
  
Brian shot you a questioning glance and you finished your thought. “In the end, it is not about what you’ve gone through or how much road you covered with someone; it’s about who still sticks around when the path gets rough. It’s okay to walk ahead a bit as long as you stop and come back before losing sight of the person following you. It’s about who stays and, if necessary, waits.”  
  
Brian nodded and you knew that he understood. He lit the joint he finished rolling and offered you a pull. While you held the smoke in your lungs, he said, dramatically, “I’ll always wait for you.”  
  
You choked on the smoke as the cackling laughter broke free from your chest and he grinned while clapping on your back, helping you breathe. “Cheesy,” you gasp between gulps of fresh air. Brian always knew how to break the tension of a serious talk. It was one of the many things you loved about him.  
  


  
**

  
  
You shake your head in disbelief, but there’s a smile on your face and you can’t remember the last time you felt this light. You think it’s entirely possible that you’re going to lift off any second and float into space. If it wasn’t for Brian anchoring you. At some point during your talk you must have inched closer to Brian, or he must have inched closer to you. Maybe you both met halfway, because when you take stock of the situation, you find that your forearms are pressed against Brian’s chest, your palms resting lightly on his shoulders while his other arm, the one that he’s not keeping on the back of your neck, has wound itself around your middle, holding you close to him.  
  
You feel like the last three years are a mere memory now. It’s almost exactly how it used to be; before you allowed your insecurities and fears and other people’s opinions to come between you. You know it won’t happen again. You’ve learned your lesson.  
  
“You wanna get out of here?” Brian suggests, glancing around and looking bashful.  
  
You’re immediately assaulted by the loudness of it all, the thumping music, the yells of people trying to make themselves heard over it, the snippets of close-by conversations, the stomp and grind of people moving to the music. It hits you how bizarre it is to be having this talk in a setting like this. And then again, it’s strangely fitting. “Yeah, let’s,” you agree.  
  
Once outside, things are slightly awkward again. It seems ridiculous, but you almost feel embarrassed. The nightly November air is freezing and suddenly all too real. What happens next? To fill the void you start rubbing your hands together because you of course forgot your pair of gloves at home. Brian watches you for two seconds before rolling his eyes and taking your hands in his, exhaling a warm breath over them and then sticking them in the pockets of his jacket. It’s a bit uncomfortable standing like this, chest to chest, and having your hands in Brian’s jacket, but it’s certainly preferable to the alternative of not touching at all.  
  
“Where do you live now?” Brian asks over the top of your head.  
  
“Oh, uhm, over on Wilson Avenue.”  
  
Brian pulls back a little to look at you. “Seriously?”  
  
You shrug in response. “It was cheap.”  
  
“And your mom was okay with that?”  
  
You duck your head and smile impishly. “I may have played the ‘Woe me, I’m so heartsick’ pity card to make her agree.” You smile up at him to take the blow out of your words.  
  
“Wanna come back home?” he offers.  
  
It takes a moment to compute. “You haven’t found a new roommate yet?” you ask in surprise.  
  
“Haven’t been looking. Lindsay—” Brian clears his throat. “Lindsay has been pestering me about it; to either move on and put up an ad for a roommate or to finally do something to get you back.”  
  
You’re both quiet for a minute or two and in the ensuing silence Brian starts pulling you in the direction of your old apartment. You follow willingly, your heart verging on giddiness. “Why didn’t you?”  
  
“Didn’t think you wanted me to. You never let on that you were still… interested. Even though others told me you were.”  
  
“Others?”  
  
“Lindsay mostly. But—”  
  
“What?” You have a feeling that Brian will never be of the chatty type. You don’t mind. Much. At least not anymore. You’ve got a lot of time to find other methods of communication, even though you’re sure that sometimes you’ll want to slap and shake him to make him talk. “But?” you prompt again.  
  
“She’s a girl.”  
  
“Not sure I follow the logic.”  
  
He makes a sound in the back of his throat that sounds a lot like a frustrated growl. “I thought… she was just deluding herself, living in a romantic fantasy world. Being, you know, girly.”  
  
“Do you know nothing about women’s intuition?” you mock him.  
  
“Well,” he replies defensively, “you’ve never given me a hint. I mean, the guys you went after…”  
  
“The guys?” you chuckle. “I don’t ‘go after guys’. There was  _one_  guy. Ethan. And he kinda went after me; not the other way around.”  
  
“Yes, and he was obviously…” Brian breaks off there, but you bump his shoulder with yours, wordlessly asking him to finish his thought. “Well,” he stalls, “not like me.”  
  
You almost laugh, because you’ve worked this out in your head a few days ago, but Brian seems genuinely puzzled, so you keep your laughter inside and help him understand. “With the exception of the last one you brought home, _your_  tricks were nothing like  _me_.”  
  
“That’s why it was easy to forget you while I was with them,” Brian answers and immediately looks shy, like he hadn’t meant for it to be said out loud. And you don’t mention Ethan anymore and refrain from saying ‘Duh’. Brian may need a moment or two, but eventually he’ll see that your reasoning was the same as his and then he’ll understand.  
  
You continue walking through the freshly fallen snow. For the first time since May you want to paint again. It’s not that you haven’t since then, just that you haven’t been really inspired to do it. “If we’d had this talk a couple of months ago, you would have saved me from a C- on my life class project.”  
  
“You got a C on a painting that you did?” Brian sounds scandalized and his genuine outrage warms your heart.  
  
“C  _minus_ ,” you emphasize.  
  
“Why do I feel like I should apologize?” He holds open the door for you when you reach the building of your old apartment. “Obviously I can’t be held responsible if you turn out not to be the genius you’ve managed to convince me you are.” His tone is teasing, but after a moment it grows serious again. “Besides, I wouldn’t have known how to go about it.” At your questioning gaze, he explains, “Getting you back. I’m… I’m not good at… talking… about the… uhm… important stuff.”  
  
At the top of the stairs, he pulls out the keys from his jeans pocket and unlocks the door to what used to be your shared home. It feels good to see it again. And even better to see it wasn’t tainted by the presence of another roommate. You can already imagine living here again. In your head, you’re already picking the date that would be convenient to get your stuff hauled over.  
  
After a nod towards the couch you go and sit there while Brian gets water for both of you. “You’re talking now,” you remind him, picking up the thread of conversation.  
  
He takes his time uncapping the water bottle and taking a gulp before answering, “Only because it feels like this is the last chance to make things right.” He holds the bottle up to his face and mutters, “Fuck, why can’t this be tequila?” He puts down the bottle, rubs his face with both hands, looks at the floor, up at your face, and back to the floor again. It’s one of those times where you want to slap and shake him and give him a teleprompter to read from. Another few minutes pass in silence, only the sound of Brian scraping his shoe across the floor in a nervous tick can be heard. It’s the floor he’s addressing when he speaks, “I… I don’t want to… uhm… run into you five, ten years from now and… and say the things you wanna hear because I’ll have figured out by then that I… that I… uhm… fuckingneedyouinmylife.” His shoulders sag in defeat and he shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s actually saying all of this. “I don’t want to waste all this time only to reach an insight I already have but don’t know how to admit to. I don’t want to be that coward. I want to tell you now so that when you do decide it’s not worth it, you’ll at least have all the data and I won’t have to tell myself that I hadn’t tried everything. I want to tell you these things you want to hear from me; only, I don’t know what they are.”  
  
You just sit there, words completely eluding you. If whoever it was that said this cheesy line about life not being counted by how many breaths you take but by how many moments take your breath away was right, then this one is definitely going to range in the top ten. You know that Brian is nervous, that he needs you to say something. But words have never seemed so meaningless before. This moment right here is the only thing of real importance. “You just did,” you quietly whisper.  
  
When Brian looks up, there’s a small smile playing on the corners of his lips. He almost looks smug and you would tell him that you’re proud of him if it didn’t sound so patronizing. So you just give him a tentative smile in return. “No running this time?” he asks.  
  
“I never ran,” you protest vehemently. But then Brian raises an eyebrow and you are reminded of the time when you tried to break up your friendship without explaining the real reasons why. So you grudgingly admit, “I just walked very fast in the opposite direction. But I came back.”  
  
“You did.” The words are accompanied by a nod.  
  
“So did you.” You know he meant tonight, but you mean years ago when he chose Pittsburgh University as his alma mater. You’re still floored that he did it for you, or because of you, or because of a sliver of hope that somehow managed to survive. “I can’t believe we’re going to try again,” you mutter quietly to yourself.  
  
“No,” Brian replies. “Not trying.” He looks to the ceiling as he sometimes does when he’s searching for the right words, those that will convey exactly what he means without laying his soul bare. “If this is just a… a test run for you—”  
  
Now it’s your turn to tilt your head and look at him curiously. Is it possible? Is Brian so protective of his feelings that he needs reassurance? At the same time, you don’t know why you’re surprised. While you were still in high school, Brian always just pretended to be this confident, uncaring person. You’ve always known that it was just a façade. That, in his version of events, you just left him, in the most hurtful way imaginable because in his head it confirmed all of the insecurities he’d already been burdened with… Of course it made him hesitant.  
  
While you still revel in your little epiphany Brian is still trying to express what goes so against his nature to say. “Justin,” he tries, “this is it. This is—”  
  
“Endgame?” you supply. He rolls his eyes again and looks at you with what you want to call fond exasperation. You don’t fail to notice that he’s not actually contradicting your assessment. You feel the urge to throw yourself down on the floor with feet in the air and squee like a little girl. You realize though that it might cause Brian to take back everything he just said and flee the scene, so you kindly refrain. But you can’t keep the happiness inside anymore. It breaks out of you in form of a huge smile and you feel so lightheaded again. “Thought you didn’t believe in love,” you tease him.  
  
“How could I not if I’ve loved you forever.” And now it’s his turn to grin while you stare on in pleased but nevertheless absolute shock.  
  
He gently closes your mouth and gets up, saying, “Now I really fucking need a drink.” From behind the small partition in the kitchen, he calls out to you, “You’re staying the night, right?”  
  
“Is my bed still there?” you ask back.  
  
“I was hoping you’d stay in mine tonight.”  
  
“Just tonight?” Seems like you’re back to teasing him.  
  
“Tonight. Tomorrow.” He looks like he wants to say more, but you know he won’t. He probably exhausted not only today’s but the entire year’s worth of communication quota.  
  
“And every night after that too?” you suggest.  
  
“Works for me.”  
  
  
  


**The End.**  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably gonna be my last BJ story. Thanks to everyone who's been following. I've had a great time in this fandom!


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